


The Price of Magic

by ac1d6urn (Acid), Sinick



Series: The Price of Magic [1]
Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Afterlife, Apocalypse, Deathfic, Disasters, Drama, Ghost Sex, Ghosts, M/M, Muggles, Novel, POV First Person, Present Tense, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:12:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 164,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acid/pseuds/ac1d6urn, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinick/pseuds/Sinick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haunted by the ghost of a former student, an ex-wizard struggles to preserve magical knowledge for future generations.</p><p>When Harry Potter died, twin wands' explosion wiped Europe clean of magic. Enchantment-free, Gringotts crumbled into a mass grave for goblin bodies. Pixie corpses covered the meadows. Romanians buried their last dragon.</p><p>Wizards remained. Thousands flooded Muggle streets with useless chanting, unable to return home through non-existent wards.</p><p>They had nothing except pride. Remember that when watching a middle-aged, redheaded waitress and her daughter taunted by children for their strange way of talking, passing the sallow-faced, somber neighbour who prefers candles to electricity, finding a sky-blue twinkle under matted hair of a homeless man.</p><p>Pride was the reason they survived.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Invasion

**Author's Note:**

> On October 2nd 2004, Acid posted that hundred-word drabble (on the topic "Pride") to the livejournal community HP100. ( http://community.livejournal.com/hp100/1197904.html )
> 
> The idea didn't stop there. Two days later, it filled half a notebook with odd details and images: a starting point for a novel. Acid didn't know much about writing a novel or writing in general, but this felt like a story worth telling.
> 
> A few months later, just around Severus Snape's birthday in fact, she first heard a character's mental voice and knew it was just the right character to help her tell this particular story. What's more, it was a pity that Harry Potter had to die - he'd be the one most likely to fix things. Did he really have to stay dead?
> 
> A different question followed: Can I tell a ghost story and make it come to life? Soon after, she posted her first attempt at the introductory chapter on her blog and got several replies, even volunteers to beta. Among them, Txilar - who stuck with her patiently chapter by chapter since then and has gone above and beyond the call of proofreader's duties when she was needed most.
> 
> Also, there was Sinick ( http://sinick.insanejournal.com/ ), who saw potential in a story that wasn't even told yet, and squeed and supplied setting after setting, and snarked Snapeishly at Acid via Y!M, and generally helped Price grow from a mere one hundred words to over a hundred thousand. Sinick hid in the shadows under the title of a beta-reader for too long after it became obvious she was an author of Price as well, caught up in telling a story that had become her own as much as it was Acid's.
> 
> There were also many loyal readers who were intrigued by Price. They left incredible comments and analysis, waited for every new chapter, cheered and cried and felt for the characters. They began translating Price to another language and drew images to illustrate the story. They sent us photos of places that the novel took place in and asked us for updates...
> 
> Writing Price has been an incredible journey. We've both become so immersed in this tale that neither of us were surprised when it spawned its own AU, Commonplace Magic - a story that was flatteringly well-received in its own right.
> 
> For those who want to travel back in time to witness the growth of Price, Acid will make the old posts and notes public after publishing the epilogue under the 'Price' tag ( http://ac1d6urn.livejournal.com/tag/price ) and memories ( http://www.livejournal.com/tools/memories.bml?keyword=Price of Magic&amp;user=ac1d6urn&amp;sortby=des ) of her Livejournal ( http://ac1d6urn.livejournal.com/ ) and Insanejournal ( http://ac1d6urn.insanejournal.com/ ) accounts. But for those who just want to read - this is where Price will be archived after the soon-to-happen end.

 

An hour’s walk from King’s Cross, a street meets the train tracks and follows them north through the outskirts of London. Eventually the street comes to a dead end, at a block of flats caged with rusty fire escapes. Away from the shops and the traffic lights, the rundown brick building stands alone. It looks as though half a century ago, a drunken wizard had wound an extendable time-turner chain around its grimy foundations, and spun the mechanism forward year after year on a whim, finally leaving the building stranded in a time that’s not its own. Even now, the place has a furtive air, like the entrances to wizarding London that used to fill the city: entrances that could only be seen by those who already knew the secrets they hid.

But so much — too much — has changed. There’s no magic about this place, no secret doors: only cracked plaster ceilings and cheap silver paint peeling off the radiators. The stairways are just as narrow as they seem: soaked in cigarette smoke on winter nights, invaded in the summer by lost, dusty moths.

The inhabitants — mostly Ukrainian and Polish immigrants — are so used to the deafening roar of passing trains, that they notice it no more than the ticking of a clock. But apart from the trains, not much escapes their curious eyes and listening ears. They snoop and chatter about the late-night visitor to the lady from the fifth floor, they discuss the weather or the children, or they wonder why ‘that sour old sod’ from the third floor never catches the bus and uses candles instead of electricity.

Gossips.

I know about electricity. I can brush a piece of wool and feel the static bristle, but I can’t quite bring myself to touch the switch that lights up my lodgings. Candles are a habit left over from better days: tiny sources of protection to ward off the spirits and the chill, now that magic is scarce.

Scarce. Yes. That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. And there’s no changing it, no matter how many candles I burn.

“When times change, you must change with the times or perish, _dryg moi dorogoj_,” Igor told me once. His grandmother Olga Karkaroff, Lucius’ great-aunt, threw malicious _Impedimenta_ at any mention of ‘Malfoi’ but she tolerated Lucius (and me by default), always urging us to speak _‘po-rysshki, vnychek, po-rysshki!’_ as if we were her grandchildren too. She was a right old bat; could’ve given Rasputin a run for his rubles in her impressive age of a hundred and sixty, if only she’d kept her teeth and could pronounce _“Crucio”_ without it sounding like Parseltongue.

For all his spendthrift ways, Lucius made better preparations for the future than either Igor or I. This dingy flat — hidden amid Muggle squalor and shaken by the roar of passing trains — will never be mine. I owe this place, and my survival, to him.

It’s best that Igor didn’t live to see it all end like this; he’d consider this fate a mockery of our kind. I still think of him whenever I’m at King’s Cross. Whenever I see the unyielding bricks of the platform walls — never giving them more than a passing glance, never risking a touch — I remember the time when those walls led onto the countless platforms of Paris, Berlin, or St. Petersburg. I’m still here because one thing I’ve learned from Igor and Lucius — besides broken-down, Parseltongue Russian and passable French — is how to change with the times.

I have my books, my candles, and my work: a handful of letters addressed to H. Prince. I’m getting by; one might even say that I’m doing all right. I just wish that those dreams of old times — and of Lucius — would leave me in peace. I already have far more than my fair share of memories and war wounds.

The old woman from the sixth floor reminds me of Igor’s _baba_ Olga. She hardly knows two words of English, and feeds me scones with raspberry tea in return for translating her newspapers. The tea tastes like diluted doxy piss, yet I return time and time again, braving the mothball smell and the neighbours’ gossip. Sometimes I wonder what they think of me: that I’m an ugly old sod with a big nose, greasy hair, and no future, just like the mirror suggests.

But even though the mirror here is mute, it still lies: though I look sickly enough, I probably have a century or more of ‘future’ ahead of me, and I can’t say I’m looking forward to it. Unless the scar does me in much sooner; sometimes I dream I can feel it, clawing its way toward my heart, like a snake sinking its fangs ever deeper into my flesh. Perhaps it’s spreading; I can’t be certain without a diagnostic charm. I can’t cast a diagnostic charm without a working wand, and I can’t have a working wand without _magic!_

I might as well ask for the moon.

This is useless: chasing a dream like magic, yet wishing _my_ dreams would end. Sometimes it feels as though my dreams are deliberately tormenting me; as if they’ve got a mind of their own. It’s not true, of course, and the mind that racks me night after night is my own: a fact that adds an extra twist of horror to it all. So, I’m begging you, Lucius — I’m begging me — don’t saunter into and out of my dreams, don’t leave me behind alone.

After an hour of attempting to relax by soaking in rusty, tepid water, and another hour of reading Dante until the words dance before my eyes and the candle melts, filling the room with its burnt, bitter tang — after I resign myself to solitary sleep — I still want to see you in my dreams.

But I cannot bear to run after you one more time, without ever, ever reaching you.

*

I wake with a gasp, tangled in sheets and itching with sweat. I untangle myself and lie staring at the ceiling; my gaze follows the contours of peeling paint for lack of anything more interesting to look at. There’ll be no more sleep for me tonight. My wand’s still under my pillow, just as I left it: thin, smooth, and oily at the handle from decades of use. Perhaps I should put it away, or snap it in half once and for all; it can’t be healthy to be so dependent on this one object, nightmare after nightmare.

At last I’m too bored to lie there any longer: I roll stiffly up to sit, haul myself to my feet and shamble down the narrow hallway and into the equally narrow bathroom. This nightmare is no different from all the others, I tell myself: only twisted memories, and the pangs of my own maimed conscience, as useless as the pain from an amputated limb. It’s finally over. I should splash cold water on my face, haul my hair out of the way, and face myself in the mirror.

I peer blearily into the glass. A pallid, scrawny face glares back. It deserves a punch in that dirty great beak for belonging to a coward.

Ugly sod. I need a shave.

What’s that? Something moves behind me, in the mirror. I whirl, staring, my heart in my throat.

All is dark, silent and still.

It’s nothing, just my ruined nerves. I’ve turned paranoid with age. It must be the reading, and the whiskey, and my own damn fault. I march back to my bedroom, determined not to…

A sudden breeze blows down the hallway, all around and past me, so fast and cool it almost feels as though it passed right through me. I shiver as tingles race across my skin.

I glimpse something pale in the darkness of my bedroom, and my chest pangs, icicle-sharp. I stride forward, tensed for an attack, but a moment later I jolt to a halt: I can only stand and gape at what is hovering in my doorway.

Harry Potter’s ghost!

“Snape! You’re alive!” He beams at me, a cheeky grin widening across his glowing face. “About time I finally found _someone!_”

It’s all I can do to gather my scattered wits. A ghost! After all this time! But without magic, how…? At last I regain some of my lost composure, and narrow my eyes, examining him from head to toe. “What the hell are you doing here,” I bark suddenly, startling myself almost as much as him, “seven years after magic ceased to exist?”

Now it’s his turn to gape. “What? Magic’s _gone?_” He blinks. “And what d’you mean, ‘seven years’?”

I don’t bother to repeat myself; what good would it do? I arch an eyebrow — how easy it is to fall back into old habits — and give him a moment to let the idea sink in.

After a long pause, he scoffs, “Yeah right!” and shakes his head. “S’not funny! Stop confusing me!”

Apart from the opalescent glow, he looks exactly as I remember him, before everything ended. Skinny and small in a Muggle jumper at least two sizes too large. His shoulders are swathed in an unclaimed Auror’s robe stained with healing potions and blood. He must have gone into his last battle like this, with his ridiculous glasses and his scruffy hair, determined to win.

Clearly, his determination wasn’t enough.

How naïve we all were to stick a wand in a seventeen-year-old’s hand and point out the enemy. ‘Kill the bad man, avenge your parents, be a hero.’ Did anyone truly believe that brilliant strategy would succeed? It’s a pity that no one ever foresaw what would happen if the boy-hero actually managed to do his part.

A lot of things are a pity. Like this poor bloody brat: doomed from the start.

I should’ve taught him better. I thought that any regrets I’d had about that had died along with my dying magic, but I realise now — faced by Harry Potter’s ghost — that I thought wrong.

“M’tired of being lost and alone and I’m _sick_ of waiting! Why didn’t any of you come back?”

“Come back where?”

“To Hogwarts, of course!”

Hogwarts! “Is it still there?” Impossible as it is to verify the news, my heart still leaps. Could Hogwarts truly have survived intact?

“Where else would it be? But why’re you asking me? Go see for yourself!” He frowns at me. “What’s so funny?”

I stifle my bitter, snickering laughter. “Ah, if only I could.”

“Look, you can just Apparate into the forest by Hagrid’s cabin; it’s not that far to walk,” he waves his arms emphatically.

“If I still _had_ magic to Apparate,” I scoff, “I would in a heartbeat, but your little encounter with the Dark Lord took care of that.”

“What?” he gasps, shocked into a pearly pallor. “You’re a squib?”

“The term ‘squib’” I reach for my professorial voice, needing the distance it gives me from this bald description of my own fate, “implies the existence of wizards. These days, I’m a Muggle. Just like everyone else.”

“Y’mean… everyone? All over the world?” He whispers, too appalled to say it aloud, “Did… did _I_ do it?”

Under that anguished stare I feel the need to tuck my wet, disordered hair behind my ears, or, perhaps let it fall over my face even more and hide my unkempt state. I’ve needed a shave since yesterday. I’m not even dressed. What kind of ghost shows up at sparrowfart and confronts a man on his way from the bathroom? Not one that knows the meaning of propriety. I stand straighter, gaining another inch of advantage over his hovering form; hopefully enough to cancel out my haggard appearance and worn nightshirt. Whatever I do, I mustn’t show him my anxieties.

“If you don’t know what happened, then no-one knows for sure. That tends to be the case when there are no _living_ witnesses.” I take a deep breath, add briskly, “Now that I’ve satisfied your curiosity, I trust you can see yourself out.” I give an ironic little ‘after you’ wave at the nearest blank wall.

“Wait!” he frowns. “Seven years? What’s happening?”

This is precisely why I use an assumed name, why I don’t own a telephone. If I did make myself known, I’d never be free of fools who think themselves entitled to something from me, just because of past acquaintance or some misguided sense of camaraderie over our mutual state. Granted, this case is unique. What are the odds of an impossible manifestation materialising right under my nose after seven years? He isn’t supposed to exist at all, but The-Boy-Who-Lived apparently lived just long enough to become The-Ghost-Who-Survived. Ironic, yet I don’t appreciate that same irony dumping him on my proverbial doorstep.

“Nothing’s ‘happening’, Potter. The N.E.W.T.s are long over. In case you’re wondering, you failed due to simple lack of attendance.” All his classmates failed for the same reason; not that it matters any more, but it’s a question of principle now. “I refuse to change your marks posthumously.” With that, I walk past him and into my bedroom, and shut the door in his face. It won’t keep a ghost out, but when physical barriers are impossible, psychological ones will have to do.

“M’not here ‘cause of the bloody exams!” The damned door didn’t even slow him down. “Sod the N.E.W.T.s! If magic’s gone, I want it back!”

“Don’t we all?” I’d like my potions back too, as well as a peaceful morning without having to put up with stray ghosts.

“Mind you, that explains everything. I looked round Hogwarts for ages, and everyone was gone. I waited and waited and almost gave up, but then I dreamed about you and here you are!” As I stalk over to the wardrobe he trails after me, rambling like any other disturbed spirit. “I was worried everyone was dead ‘cept for me; course, I’m dead too only not dead and gone, you know… and then I saw _you_, and if you’re right about magic it’s bloody _awful_ and I’ve _got_ to get it back, but at least it all makes sense now!”

After everything I’ve sacrificed over the years, do I really have to give up my peace and privacy as well? There must be a way to banish a spirit without resorting to a spell. I’ll simply have to convince him to leave. It shouldn’t be too hard to expel this particular household pest: just apply large doses of scorn, with a dash of ridicule to ensure he won’t return. After all, what could any ghost — let alone Harry Potter’s ghost — possibly want from me?

“There’s gotta be a way,” he mutters, low and stubborn, before looking up at me and crying “You have to help me!”

“Help you with what?” I parry impatiently. Someone ought to teach him manners, but why should I bother to begin on such a never-ending task?

“Getting magic back!”

“If that were possible,” I reply in my most sweetly sarcastic parody of patience, “don’t you think it would’ve been done already?” Just how fixated is he on that preposterous idea? Either way, it’s time to end this nonsense. I bite out in my most dismissive voice, “Good _day_, Mr. Potter.” I allow a smirk onto my face and add, in the bored singsong of shop assistants, “Have a nice eternity.”

He glares at me, and for the briefest instant his eyes spark, Killing Curse green. “Don’t mock me!” Anger seems to lend solidity to his form; even his hair bristles with energy. “You oughtta be thankful I’m trying to fix it, y’selfish sod!”

“Mis-ter Potter!” I belatedly recall from somewhere that calling a ghost by his name only makes him stronger. Damn! “Unlike you, I still have a life. I would like to go about living it. Without you.”

“Haven’t you listened to a word I said? Hey, I’m talking to you, come back!” As I close the wardrobe door — no point in trying to get dressed right now with him gawping at me — he grabs at my shoulder. His hand goes right through me; I shake off the tingle and turn away.

So much for politeness and pleading! How soon he starts throwing orders around. The whelp never could accept it when things didn’t go his way. Typical Potter! I glare at the arrogant little bastard with the utmost loathing. I can’t possibly express my opinion of him to the fullest in the limited time of a single conversation. For once the brat’s had a bloody lollipop taken out of his hand and now he’s going to pout and whinge and whine and throw a temper tantrum. Stop the planet immediately; everyone coddle this child until he calms down!

I pin him down with my stare and advance until we’re chest to chest and he has to lift his head to look at me. It doesn’t occur to him to hover a few inches higher above the floor. Good. “You. Will. Not. Repeat. That. Outburst. Again! Understood?”

He glares up at me and doesn’t back down. “If you want to be a git, fine. But take me to someone who’ll listen.”

Have I somehow lulled him into ignoring the ‘Heartless Bastard, Do Not Disturb’ sign over my head? This won’t do. I hold my head high and glare down my nose; it’s time to show this insolent cretin his place. “I see. You want me to take your little hand and lead you across the road, so the nasty Muggle cars don’t drive through you? Let’s set a time, shall we? Is never good for you?”

“D’you think I want your help, you stubborn sod?” he interrupts before I even begin ripping his confidence into shreds. “I’m only asking ‘cause I’ve got no choice. Look, all I know is, I have to bring magic back.”

Magic? Didn’t we settle this already? “I am not being stubborn, you just happen to be incorrect, irrelevant, and deceased. Magic can’t be brought back, it’s as simple as that.”

“Nonono, you have to be wrong!” He shakes his head; it sends his translucent hair flying. “There’s got to be a way.”

Indeed. How silly of me to doubt it. “Oh, of _course_ there must be, simply because the great Harry Potter said so.”

He scowls mulishly. “There _is_. Somehow. I just know it.”

I arch my eyebrow. “Do enlighten me.”

He appears perplexed for a second, deep in thought: high time he tried that! At last, he shrugs. “I dunno, just something to bring it back. Like a spell to fix things: only different, obviously, ‘cause you can’t cast without magic either.”

Yet another brilliant solution from the lips of the Boy Wonder! I’m not certain how many of these I’ll be able to stomach. “I see my efforts at school were not in vain. Thank you for this fascinating display of intellect.” I glance at the clock on my bedside table; it’s almost six. I want my clothes, my coffee, and most of all my privacy. What I definitely don’t want is to spend the rest of my life in vain attempts at talking sense into the most senseless brat in the Wizarding or Muggle worlds.

Potter, the irksome little moron, flops down on my chair, and regards me with a calm face. “Right, then, let’s see you do better! Go on.”

What else does the pest want? Hasn’t he bothered me enough? “For your information, fixing the world is slightly more complicated than ‘swish and flick’.” I rub my forehead, trying to ward off the approaching headache.

“Y’think I don’t know that?” he nods. “And?”

Who does he think he is? “I don’t know what you think you’re entitled to from me, but barging uninvited into my home in the middle of the night doesn’t improve your chances of getting it.”

“All right.” There goes that cheeky smirk again. “I can wait till after breakfast.”

How gracious of him! I glare until at last he gets the hint and rises, floating toward the door. “And what makes you think I’ll do anything for you then?”

“I don’t _have_ to leave, y’know,” he scowls. “I can wait right here.”

Impossible pest. “Fine. I want at least an hour to myself.”

He narrows his eyes. “Thirty minutes?”

“An _hour!_ In peace.”

*

Potter keeps his word. There is no sign of him on my way to the bathroom or the kitchen. Only when I put on adequate clothing, arrange my bothersome hair around my freshly-shaved jaw, sit down at the rickety kitchen table with a steaming mug in my hands, and breathe in the scent of coffee does he reappear. He flops down on the chair opposite to mine. The gesture would appear realistic, if not for the fact that the chair is pushed too far in, and his chest is now halfway through the table. Farewell, my sanity. Something tells me I won’t keep it for long, not with him around.

“Is that all you have for breakfast?” he eyes my coffee mug. “No wonder you’re skin and bones.”

Impudent pup! I have no need for a nanny, especially one this inadequate. “At least I have skin and bones.” I note the way he’s glaring at the mug in my hands. “Hungry?”

“You haven’t changed a bit. Still a heartless bastard.”

“At long last you noticed,” I reply dismissively. “Which is why, you insolent brat, you’ll regret ever speaking to me.”

“Well that won’t be anything new,” he scoffs. “I always did regret it! …Well?”

“Well, what?”

He feebly attempts to balance his elbows on rather than _in_ the table. “S’been an hour already.”

“It’s been barely forty minutes. And anyway, how much time pressure should a ghost feel?” I arch my eyebrow and shield myself from his further inquiries with my coffee mug.

“Y’said you’d explain. How do I bring magic back?”

If the dunderhead had been half this persistent with his studies, perhaps I could’ve done something to improve his vacant mind. Very well. This might finally pummel a clue into his phantom brain.

“It is no more possible to restore magic than it is to make a Muggle into a wizard.” Magical power isn’t just something that can be turned on and off like electricity. It’s taken and given, like the air we breathe or the water we drink. It comes from the earth and into the earth it returns, continuous as a heartbeat. Once that heartbeat stops, it’s all over.

“Why not?” he shrugs. “There’s gotta be some way.”

“If there was a way to fix squibs there wouldn’t be any in the first place.” What were we teaching our students at Hogwarts? A first-year should have been aware of this.

“But there has to be. S’just, difficult maybe, or risky, so no one tried it before. Or maybe no one’s figured out how, ‘cause like you, they all thought it’s impossible. But it’s not. And I’ll prove it to you!”

I am haunted by an imbecile! The empty bottles lined up at my feet show more comprehension than him.

“If I broke it — or even if I didn’t — I’ll fix it. And you _will_ help me one way or another.” he announces, and melts into thin air before I have a chance to reply.

Good riddance.

*

“Snape! Oi, Snape?”

I walk past him without giving him a second glance. I’ve humoured him once. He can’t expect me to do it every time.

“Fine! If you’re gonna be like that!”

Inwardly, I smirk. ‘Ignore him, and he will go away’ sounds like the perfect plan.

*

“The cabin boy was Tipper…”

Perhaps not such a perfect plan after all. Damnation! It’s been three hours. The little devil has already sung this the same obnoxious tune at least a dozen times. Which one of the gods (sadistic bastards that they are) did I annoy badly enough to deserve a tone-deaf ghost in my loo?

“That dirty little nipper…” resonates down the corridor.

Impossible whelp!

“He stuffed his arse with broken glass…”

In the kitchen, I drop my head on my hands and try to block out his singing. He is so horribly off-key he can’t possibly be doing it on purpose.

“…and circumcised the skipper!”

That’s quite enough. My patience wears thin by the time he yells all about the cook and the ‘crup named Rover’.

“Wrong verses,” I grind out through clenched teeth.

The singing stops. “What?”

“You may be a rotten singer, but you’re no Johnny Rotten.”

A dishevelled head appears through the bathroom door. “Huh?”

“You forgot the second mate,” I sneer at him.

His eyes widen. “Next thing you’ll be marking my songs. It’s not Potions, y’know.” He waves his hands emphatically, and then pauses with a wicked grin. “So did I fail? What’s my sentence, _Professor?_ Reckon I’ll just have to serve detention right here: a hundred repetitions till I get it right.”

I glare, gesturing at the bathroom door. “Go on then, you might as well start now.”

He glares back, all determination. “Oh, I will.”

*

“A-WEE-EEE-EEE-EEE-ah-WEE-OH-WIM-OH-WEH!”

What the hell was that? I’ve just stopped tossing and turning in my bed to yet another verse of _Henery the Eighth_ (‘I am, I am! Second verse, same as the first!’) — damn the brat! — and now he’s finally changed his painfully limited repertoire to this banshee screeching.

From the loo comes a bellow, “In the jungle, the mighty jungle, the LIIIIION SLEEPS TONIIIIIGHT…” This must be the first time in my life I’ve been jealous of a lion. A fictitious one, what’s more.

Can my neighbours hear him? I suppose not, lucky sods. It’s 3 AM and no one’s pounded on the wall yet.

This is ridiculous.

I kick the door open. “Are you leaving any time this century?”

He looks up from the toilet tank with a nasty smile. “Brilliant acoustics in here! Reckon I know now why Myrtle liked to haunt loos.”

Little guttersnipe! “What are you playing at?”

“Ohhh nothing! Y’don’t mind me staying here for a week — or three — do you?”

“Don’t mock me.”

“I’m not mocking you, I’m mocking you _back_. And did you know, ghosts don’t need to sleep?” His grin is sharp with malice. “Hope you like my singing. There’ll be more. A lot more.”

Creative little bastard. “Is that a threat?”

“Now, how can I threaten?” He taps his lips with his finger in mock-consideration. “I can’t even touch you. ‘Course, that means you can’t touch me either. Or throw me out on my ear. Too bad.”

“Just what makes you think I won’t be capable of ignoring you?”

He shrugs, beaming. “I’ll just sing louder. As for the loo, feel free. I can’t really stop you, can I?” He leans forward and stares pointedly at my crotch.

The brat must think himself clever for targeting my essential needs. A few days without sleep, and I’d have to reconsider my options in any event. Throw in his nasty little voyeuristic streak … it’s crudely effective, I have to admit, if only to myself. “Desperate, are you?” I fling the words at him with as much loathing as I can manage.

He beams up at me. “No. Not any more. Actually, I’m having fun.”

*

I don’t remember my dreams. If I had any, it was probably a nightmare about a stray ghost caterwauling in my bathroom. Of course, Potter doesn’t need to visit my dreams; he’s perfectly capable of turning my reality into a nightmare all by himself.

I try not to make any noise as I get out of bed: it wouldn’t do me any good to let him know I’m awake. God, look at what the little bastard’s done to me already! He’s only been here a day, and already I’m being forced to sneak about my own house like a thief. How pathetic this is, hiding from a ghost. It _has_ to change.

I manage to get as far as the wardrobe, but the damn door’s creaking is enough to wake the dead. Not that this particular dead needs waking. The loud clang from the kitchen just proves my point. So does the “Whoops!” that I hear over the clatter of something glass and heavy hitting and rolling against a hard surface.

I reach in to select a shirt. “Stop pretending you’re a poltergeist, or I’ll make you pick up every single piece.”

Silence never sounded so guilty. He must’ve already wrecked my kitchen then. But at least that means the bathroom is unoccupied for once. Good.

*

“Good morn…” Potter pokes his head through the wall, not a minute after I step into the shower.

I jump at the invasion. My foot slips; I overbalance and grab the shower curtain. Three plastic rings snap one after the other like torn buttons, but the rest hold me upright. If it wasn’t for that, I probably would’ve cracked my head open as I fell. My heart pounds and I can almost feel it tugging at the scar tissue below it.

He freezes, startled, torn between looking away and outright staring; when he notices my glare his glance jumps away from me at once. “M-morning,” he stammers out. “Ow. All right?”

The nitwit could have killed me right there; I could’ve broken my bloody neck! Of all the idiotic things he could’ve done, this is by far the most inane. “Don’t you have any damn sense of privacy? Or any sense at all?”

My furious outburst is too late to derail his curiosity. He’s noticed; even now his gaze keeps darting down from my face. Oh, not _that_ far down, only as far down as my chest. “Bloody hell, did a lorry run you over?”

I grab a towel and clutch it to my chest like a shield. “None of your business! Get out!”

“Fine, you old prude! No need to yell!”

“If you didn’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, I wouldn’t have to yell!”

“Right, then, I’ll be in the kitchen trying to become blind and deaf, since _dead_ isn’t enough for you!”

Couldn’t he have vanished before now, and saved me all this trouble? By the time he disappears, my towel is soaked through. I shut off the water and examine the damage done to the shower curtain. I shouldn’t feel guilty in the slightest. Potter shouldn’t stick his meddling head through my walls with no warning whatsoever. I don’t know what disturbs me more: the loss of my privacy, the genuine concern that managed to slip into his expression before my reply banished it, or the fact that I was caught clutching a towel to my chest like a bloody maiden aunt. Perhaps it’s my fate to continually hide some scar or mark from prying eyes.

I pull my shirt over my wet skin, hurrying to conceal the wide line of pale, wiry keloids running diagonally from my right shoulder across my chest and back. Another set of scars circles my left elbow in a thick, hideous band. To him it probably looked like I was hacked in two by an axe and glued back together with scar tissue. No wonder he ran.

I miss my robes, the kind that covered me from neck to feet and shielded me from the public gaze. Instead I adjust my shirt — too thin and tight for my tastes — button it at the neck and pull the sleeves as low as I can over my hands. They are too short for my arms: pathetic by Wizarding standards. I look like a Knockturn beggar who’s just traded his only cloak for a bottle of Ogden’s. What has become of me in this pit? I’d rather not think about it.

*

Potter remains quiet for the rest of the day. He lurks in dark corners, leaving the dust unstirred, or crouches next to the narrow gap in my curtains, gazing at the world outside with a look of curiosity and desperation. He watches the trains make their way across the labyrinth of steel paths and blinking lights, probably wishing to be spirited away on one.

He finally abandons his perch on top of a newspaper stack next to the radiator, but his gaze flicks back to the window every time he hears the teeth-rattling roar. In between the passing trains, he eyes my bookshelves, reading the titles systematically: starting from the very top, going from left to right, top to bottom with his head crooked onto his right shoulder, reciting hurriedly, as if trying to capture the words before they escape his lips. He gets past the dusty works of Byron, stumbles upon an empty place on the shelf, and proceeds to Goethe, then Shakespeare. I remind myself to put a volume of Dante back in its rightful place, and while I hunt for it under the bed among the dust and the stubs of burnt out candles, he passes over Tolstoy and Twain, Voltaire and Wilde.

It’s seven in the evening and I don’t have to watch the idiot puttering about. “Stay here!” I bark at him as I put on my shoes. I don’t believe the brat will obey me, so I wait outside for a good minute, prepared to greet him with my most menacing glare. Surprisingly, he listens to me for once, and doesn’t follow.

I climb the draughty, echoing stairs to the sixth floor, and politely tap twice on the scratched up door so similar to mine.

Yelizaveta Vasilyevna is home, as usual. _“Dobryi vecher.”_ She nods in greeting, pulls her usual dirty-grey shawl over her shoulders, and offers me some tea.

It’s not long until she asks me what’s happening. The question gleams shrewdly in her dark eyes, even through the heavy-rimmed glasses held in place mostly by the mole on her left cheek. She eyes my face with discomforting concern and takes a guess. _“Gosti?”_

Guests? She isn’t too far from the truth. Potter creates so many complications, he can easily pass as a regular human invader. _“Da, gosti,”_ I agree.

I ask her what gave her the idea as she wobbles on her weak legs, barely squeezing her short, round body through the narrow hallway. I follow her to the small kitchen, an extensively decorated mirror image of my own, and pull a tall, bulky stool to the table as she sets down the teapot, a jar of strawberry jam, and a plate with lightly-toasted slices of bread.

_“Sudya po litcy, synok, eto libo pohorony libo grabezh, libo gosti naehali,”_ she declares. It’s true. I can see how the invasion of unwanted guests would rival funerals and robbery. In some cases guests can be the worst of the three.

Also, a neighbour heard me yelling at someone today, she finally admits, with a mysterious smile and a questioning glance.

There’s no hiding the obvious. I wonder if she heard me herself, or if her daughter — who lives on the same floor as I — passed the news up the grapevine. “Yes,” I confess, “Just one guest, but trouble enough for three.”

She tuts over my unlucky fate, and tells a long, gory tale of her relatives from Odessa who showed up out of the blue supposedly for a weekend yet stayed for a month. They ate all her food, kicked her cat, and finally disappeared into the night with her silver. At the end she warns me to lock away my valuables.

I assure her that this guest wouldn’t steal.

“Just wait,” she replies with scepticism that would rival Alastor Moody’s; she stresses that it’s best to be vigilant now than sorry later, before adding, _“Chaiy?”_

I turn down her offer of more tea.

She sighs, sets down her ever-present knitting and refills my cup anyway, before pulling out a bottle from her kitchen cupboard.

“Only one,” I warn her. “I’ll have to go back soon.”

She nods and adds the alcohol to my teacup until it nearly overflows; only then does she do the same to hers.

_“Na zdorovie.”_ Our cups meet with a cheerful clink.

I feel comfortable with alcohol soaking into my blood in this warm and well-lit space, in silence broken only by the subtle click-clack of knitting needles, in the company of this old woman, who reminds me sometimes of Igor’s grandmother but most of all reminds me of myself. Like me, she is a stranger in a strange place, an accidental survivor of many things haunting her past. We understand and support each other in our own subtle ways of vodka mixed in tea, eccentric habits, and stories of people long forgotten and far away.

I decide to stay longer: it shouldn’t hurt anything.

*

It’s late when I unlock the creaky door to my flat. It seems unoccupied, but when I light a candle, the first thing I find is my mail — which I’d left in a neat stack on the table — scattered all over the hallway. “Potter!”

“‘Bout time!” his weak voice comes from the kitchen. Insolent twerp!

“What did you do to my things?”

He comes drifting down the hallway, colourless in the candlelight. He’s in his school robes this time, neat and proper like the good little student he never was. Even the hideous Gryffindor tie around his ethereal neck is muted to the hues of coffee and cream. “I didn’t break anything.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“Not a thing,” he insists. “This place is one giant cupboard. Couldn’t you have at least left a candle burning?”

“Why? Surely you weren’t planning on reading in my absence.” Next thing he’ll try to convince me that ghosts need light to move about and wreck things; preposterous little imp.

As he comes closer to me, his form brightens and becomes opaque, his features acquire an additional level of detail. The stack of empty bottles along the wall rattles as he passes over them. “S’not like I could do anything,” he grumbles. “Couldn’t you bloody warn me you’d be gone that long?”

“Couldn’t do anything? Then what’s this?” I point at the papers on the floor and eye him suspiciously.

He grows uneasy under my stare. “Practice! I thought I’d be able to tidy them up before you came back!”

“Don’t lie to me. How well can you move objects?” I’d like to know, before all my possessions are broken and scattered on my floor like one of my bottles this morning, purely to provide him with a bit of ‘practice’.

“I can only move small things, though even that’s not bloody likely to happen now, not with you skiving off for hours and hours.” He glares through his glasses at me and, curiously, it reminds me of Yelizaveta’s accusing glances when I don’t visit for more than a month.

Perhaps he hasn’t made as much of a mess as I’d thought. “If you were feeling weak, you could’ve followed.”

“I didn’t know the place that well,” he shrugs, “Didn’t want to lose my way back.”

How can a ghost lose his way, when he can walk through walls? “Try again,” I sneer.

“All right, I wanted to see if I could get by without having to put up with _you!_ Happy now?”

“I see, and how did ‘getting by’ go?”

He looks away. “I’ll keep trying.”

“You do that, as long as it doesn’t involve that racket you call singing. No clutter. _No_ more surprises. I don’t want to see or hear you till morning.”

He shoots me another murderous look and floats off.

Briefly, I wonder about the intricate detail and accuracy with which mere wisps of light and energy have re-created Potter’s face, and all its expressions. He’d be an interesting subject for study, this last ghost, if he wasn’t the ghost of the most irritating student I’ve ever had the displeasure to teach. Perhaps I should take Yelizaveta’s advice regarding unwelcome guests. If I had any silver, it would have been locked up long ago, but the only valuables I have now are my books. I can hardly picture the whelp trying to carry my entire library out the door, even out of spite.

I fall asleep with a ridiculous image of Potter trying to balance a stack of heavy volumes in his arms. He fails to concentrate and the books tumble through him one by one. _Clatter. Thump. Plop._ I must’ve drunk too much at Yelizaveta’s: the mental image shouldn’t be anywhere near as funny as it is.

*

The kitchen’s too bloody dark, just like the rest of this place. Mine for the night, is it? How generous. Did he really think I’d stay there just because he said so? Bollocks to that! Does he expect I’ll jump through hoops for him like a bloody dog? No, I don’t reckon he thinks of me as a pet, ‘cause people like their pets. And he doesn’t like anything or anyone.

No, I’m like a bottle to him. No noise, no accidents, no trouble at all, just like one of his empty bottles. Fit only to glare at, stick in the corner, and forget. And why not? He’s been doing that to me as long as I’ve known him.

It’s freezing! Well, it’s not anything Snape or anyone else’d notice, but that’s how it feels to me. It’s always chilly if I’m more than arms’ length away from him, and even then it’s only lukewarm. Unless he’s being a right bastard, and then it doesn’t matter how close I force myself to get to him, it’s really bloody cold!

Oh, sod it! Walls or no walls, I’m going closer. Maybe if I go invisible he won’t notice me. If I hide behind the chair. Or the bookcase. Is he asleep yet? He’s not moving.

Yeah… I think he’s asleep.

Funny, though, I don’t remember him looking so normal before. He’s not even frowning. Just an average bloke. Tired. The hatchet-faced bastard turned into a weary old bloke after all. Maybe with a century to catch up on lost sleep, he’ll be more like Dumbledore.

Ha! I wish.

Then I wouldn’t have to crouch here on the floor waiting for his breathing to calm down and deepen. Waiting till I’m sure he’s too deep asleep to notice me, huddling closer to the warmth I absolutely need to survive. Bloody stubborn git!

It’s not like I’m going to stay here long, just till I’m strong enough. It’s not my fault I’ve got to be near him all the time. He’s the one making it difficult, not me!

It’ll just be a minute. Don’t you wake up, y’greasy git. Sleep.

*

Potter isn’t hovering uselessly at my side as I brush the patch of spilled salt (surely his doing) off the table. He isn’t lurking in the cramped bathroom, just waiting for me to walk in. He isn’t pacing aimlessly next to my bookshelves or counting my books. As I sit down in the creaky armchair, inhaling its musty leather scent, I glance at the nearby window just in case. No, Potter isn’t at the window either.

Perhaps he’s gone for good. Ha! What an empty hope that is. Chances are, he’ll stick his prying nose through the nearest wall any minute now, and carry on with his irritating act as if nothing’s happened.

I feel prickly, uncomfortable, almost as if there’s an itch on the back of my neck that I can’t quite reach. I stay seated, forcing myself to continue flipping through the scientific paper that arrived in the post yesterday. The writing is already speckled with my red ink, and there’ll be more corrections before I’m through with it. It shouldn’t take more than a day to verify the citations, and then I can send it back.

The uncomfortable feeling grows stronger throughout the day and, it seems, lingers in the very darkness settled in the corners of my room. I set the corrected paper aside and pick out a thin volume from the lower shelf. Reading isn’t a guaranteed cure for paranoia, but it should be enough. I’m not yet so deranged as to think that the walls are watching my every step or conspiring behind my back.

The room grows darker. I light another candle and pull the curtains shut. Afterwards I settle back into the chair, and try to see if a book can distract me from my troubles. I read _Evgeny Onegin_ in silence, flipping the pages through human lives, wants, and duels, through the senseless death of another young idiot written in flawlessly structured verse.

I’m not even past page nineteen when the sensation intensifies. It’s nothing definite yet, just something unpleasant in the back of my mind, like a hissing whisper I can’t fully understand or a stranger staring over my shoulder.

I’m _not_ alone, am I? I’m also not that paranoid. Not just yet.

I don’t permit myself the weakness of a single glance over my shoulder. Instead, I merely drawl in my most bored voice, “Stop sneaking about like a rat and show yourself.”

“M’not _sneaking_!” He materialises behind me and gives the book on my lap a questioning glance. “What’s that about?”

Infuriating as always! He has no respect for privacy whatsoever, but at least that nagging sensation of being watched has gone. I stare sightlessly at the text, trying to put the entire work in terms that a nitwit like Potter would comprehend. “A waste of a mind, and of a life.” Why do I bother?

“Oh.” He leans over my shoulder and squints at the letters trying to make sense of each one. “Oh-n? Co-something. Bo-da?” It’s embarrassing, like watching a house elf trying to decipher ancient runes.

_“Oni soshlis’, voda i plamen’, stihi i proza, lyod i kamen’,”_ I finally quote, just to prevent him from mangling the lines beyond repair. Igor did teach me something, after all.

I take my hand off the page on the right, revealing the English translation. _So verse and prose they came together…_

“Ooh, wicked!” He grins approvingly at me, as if I’m a brat who finally managed to recite my first spell and he’s my Professor. “S’poetry, then, right? I knew it!”

I give him a sour look. “Go on, then,” I grumble, “I’m sure you’re just dying to ask some more senseless questions. Get it out of your system.”

“Maybe I will,” he bites his lip and keeps on staring. “Where’d you get your scar?”

That was unexpected. Why does he always have to pry into things that don’t concern him?

“M’not trying to piss you off. I’d just like to know.” He shuffles one foot in front of the other and looks down.

So be it. He’ll regret ever asking. “Apparation wound.”

He blinks in disbelief: the Earth is round?! But… innit flat? “Y’ mean you splinched?”

‘Splinched’ is such an odd word for a microsecond temporal slice through tissues caused by the tremendous effort of a body struggling to remain intact when the Apparation process unexpectedly halts. ‘Splinched’ doesn’t cover the half of it, but it’s not a completely incorrect term. “Essentially, yes.”

Potter glances at my chest; disbelief and embarrassment flicker in his eyes. I should’ve let him think I was run over by a lorry, the brat wouldn’t have known better. Now he probably thinks I couldn’t handle a task so simple that even he performed it correctly on his first try.

“Never seen one that bad before,” he finally says.

What did we teach the dunderheads at Hogwarts? Oh, my mistake, we didn’t. We just patted them on the head and let them loose into the world with their shiny new Apparation licenses and the wind blowing between their ears. “They don’t get ‘that bad’, Potter. With proper treatment, they disappear completely in less than a day.”

“Yours didn’t.”

“There were complications.” Yes, the complete lack of said proper treatment, and my own rotten luck. “The scar tissue has spread over the years.”

“S’not so bad. Just a scar, you can’t even see it most of the time.” He tosses his head and his fringe flicks up; for a moment his own scar flashes, almost as briefly as the lightning it resembles.

He, of all people, is trying to protect my delicate feelings from being hurt! I can hardly believe the farce my life has become. “Appearance is the last thing on my mind.” It was the chest pain and the blood I was coughing up for weeks afterwards that had me the most concerned, but that’s nothing Potter needs to know about.

He frowns in a feeble attempt to put two and two together. “Apparation involves the whole body. That scar isn’t just on your skin, is it?” He looks up and waits for confirmation.

“Congratulations,” I sneer. “You’ve successfully managed to remember something from your sixth year.”

“But I thought wounds like that were fatal!”

He actually looks worried. On my behalf! But it’s nothing he should lose any of his non-existent sleep over. “Then I’ve been doomed for a long time.”

“M’not joking! Have you tried to find help?”

Stubborn wretch. Help? Of course. The only thing likely to be of any real ‘help’ was mixed and bottled by my own hands, placed on my Potions shelves at Hogwarts, which is as good as no help at all by now. Does the little sod think I can still wave my wand and make all my troubles disappear? My life was never so simple, even when I had magic.

“I’ve had the scar for years and, as I’m sure even _you’ve_ noticed, I’m still alive.” It’s much more than Potter can say for himself.

He ignores my scowl, as usual, and flops down on the floor next to a burning candle. “Does it hurt?”

His concerned little Gryffindor routine is getting on my nerves. What does he care about my aches and pains? And, more importantly, when did he become comfortable enough with me to ask such a question? “Not enough to irritate me.” I emphasise with an arched eyebrow, in hope that the hint is not overlooked.

Some hope; my hint is left unnoticed in the dust as Potter joyfully skips ahead to yet another senseless question. “When’d you get it?”

He is rather thick at times, the meddlesome fool. Yet again I’m forced to lower my expectations of his common sense. If this continues, I’ll end up burying them in an unmarked grave for good measure and be done with it. “You might call it a souvenir I received in Diagon Alley. It was slightly after your time: by my calculations, less than an hour after.” I deliver the final blow with a flourish. It’s no more than he deserves. One point to the suffering owner of common sense; aggravating ghost: nil.

Just as I thought, Potter doesn’t bother me with any more questions after that.

*

“Have you at least got a conscience?”

I crack open my crusted eyes and blink blearily upwards. Instead of the dark, peeling ceiling I’d expected, I see Potter: hovering over me, his arms crossed and his head tilted in an inquiring look.

“You know. Like a voice, inside of you, that says something’s got to be done ‘cause it’s the right thing to do. Even an utter bastard like — even you must have one.”

Of all the ridiculous arguments I’ve ever heard, this has to be the most inane. ‘The right thing?’ Blasted Gryffindor ‘logic’! “The only ‘voice inside of me’ has been asking me for years to rid the world of idiots, and enjoy the rest of my existence on the resulting empty planet. Care to assist me with that?”

“Sure,” he grins, “But only if you help me first.”

“It wasn’t an offer, you nitwit!” I glare, “There are no voices!”

“Well, there are now I’m here,” he declares, as that blasted grin actually widens.

“Oh joy!”

He snorts amusement at my sarcasm, but then his expression abruptly sobers. “I… I s’pose I can see why you wouldn’t want to help me.” His shoulders sag, defeated. “It’s ‘cause it’s all my fault to begin with, innit?”

Presumptuous child. What do I care about his woes? “I appreciate you’ve set this special time aside to confess your former sins, but frankly I’d rather sleep…” I throw him a suspicious glare and sit up. “Wait a minute, what do you mean, it’s your fault?”

“I… I didn’t mean to!” he wails. “I thought I was saving the world; I didn’t mean to destroy it! I didn’t even want to fight him, but I had to and I told myself it’d be worth it and then our wands just blew up and — dammit, Snape — I thought I killed everyone!” He’s incandescent with anguish in that moment: as terrible as lethal combat, as bright as curselight. “‘Till I saw you, and you’ll never know what a sight for sore eyes you were… how wonderful it was, to see just one of us, still alive…” He extends his hand, as if to poke me, but his fingers sink right into my chest with an icy tingle. I draw breath to put a stop to his invasion of my personal space — of my very person — but he’s already pulled back. Pleading and defiance clash oddly in his glare. “Don’t you see? Now I can still make it all better, ‘cause even if you are a git, at least I’m not alone any more.”

I take a deep breath. Stubborn wretch, why does he have to make it so difficult for me to ignore him? “Stop giving yourself so much credit. You certainly didn’t destroy the world — I’m not even sure you’re to blame for destroying its magic — but I assure you, the world has gone on turning without you. It doesn’t need your help any more than I do.”

“Oh.” He blinks and a slow smile stretches his lips. “Right. Um. Thank you!”

“Why on earth are you thanking me?”

“For saying it’s not my fault.” He beams. “Actually, you’re the first one to say anything to me — till today, I didn’t even dare hope there was someone alive out there.”

“Why would you even think that?”

“Why? Why?” He waves his arms. “I looked everywhere, all over Hogwarts, and all I ever found was dust’n’cobwebs. And most of the time I couldn’t even go to some parts of the castle just ‘cause it was the wrong time of the bloody day! I mean, what kind of idiot sets up ghost wards on an eight-to-five schedule!”

I cough to cover up something; not a chuckle. Though I’m surprised that the wards, along with the castle, survived through the blast, Hogwarts still doesn’t matter any more. It might as well be on the moon. “One of those ‘idiots’ would be me.”

“You? I can see why the girls’ bathrooms need it — and maybe the dorms — but the classrooms?”

“We were concerned about ghosts interrupting lectures.”

“Right,” he scowls. “And the library?”

“Madam Pince wanted absolute silence during opening hours.”

“Uh-huh. And the Great Hall during full moon nights?”

“A rather spirited group of ghosts tried to organise an orgy to celebrate the full moon. The Headmaster thought such a spectacle would be unsuitable for impressionable young eyes.”

“Whoa, wicked! Hadn’t thought of it.”

“Kindly do not!” The last thing I need is a ghost like him getting more ideas to bother the world.

*

In the morning he stands at my kitchen table — right in the middle of it — bending over a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a stack of letters, sniffing around, like an exuberant pup allowed inside on account of bad weather, only soon to be tossed out again for bad behaviour and mud on his paws.

“Prince?” Apparently he hasn’t forgotten how to read, wonder of wonders. “Is that what they call you now?” He looks up. His owlish glasses sit crooked on his nose, translucent as the rest of him.

I suppose it’s too late to ignore him in the hope that he’ll grow bored and find another poor sod to bother. “Sometimes.”

“Professor Prince… Yuck.” He scowls. “Snape suits you better. Why’d you change it?”

Too many people in this world, former students or foes, still remember ‘Snape’: people I hope never to hear from again. The Prince, however, is not so infamous. “It’s my mother’s maiden name.”

“Oh,” he nods. “It’s… er, noble.”

Before I can sneer a suitable comeback he squints at the top envelope. “What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

He rubs his forehead. “And year?”

I tell him the date. His eyes widen and he glances out the window as if I’d said a snowstorm is expected today.

“Yes, it’s still 2005 outside.”

“Bloody hell!” He pokes his head through the window, then through the wall dividing my flat from the neighbours’, and surfaces with a wince. “So y’weren’t joking about that ‘seven years’ thing. I s’pose you really are planning to live the rest of your life as a Muggle, after all.”

I snort. “Well, of course I’m not planning to!” I’m already doing it, you naïve fool; I’ve been doing it for years.

Said fool’s face lights up like a bloody Christmas tree. “You’re not? Really?”

It’s high time he stopped living in a fairytale. “Our homes are gone. Our wands are kindling. We are Muggles scraping by in a Muggle world. What else would you suggest I do but live my Muggle life?”

“You can always leave!”

Where else would I go? “So can you,” I hiss. “In fact, why don’t you?”

He glares, ready to lunge, but then simply shakes his head. “It doesn’t work that way, or if it does, I don’t know how. I never haunted anyone before.”

Just perfect! I’m being haunted by an amateur. “Then, unless you figure things out soon, this coexistence of ours will be painful.”

He drops his head. “I’m trying! Believe me, you’re the last person in the world I want to haunt.”

That truthful confession has more effect on me than any of his Gryffindor ‘logic’. With a weary sigh, I admit, “The feeling’s mutual.”

“So what now?” he murmurs.

What indeed? “Do you even have anywhere else to go?”

He shakes his head with such resignation; it might even be true.

I suppose he could be telling me the unvarnished truth, for once. Ghosts can’t move too far from the place they haunt and, logically, it would be the same if they’re haunting a person. Not that logic’s any help, since logic suggests I’m stuck with him, for the time being at least.

“Lovely, a ghost of my very own,” I toss over my shoulder as I walk out of the kitchen. It’s the closest thing to a welcome he should expect from me.

He splutters in surprise and drifts after me into the bedroom. He circles round until he’s hovering right before me, pierced by narrow beams of sunlight from a gap in the curtains. Only once we’re face to face, does he announce boldly, “I don’t belong to you.”

I smirk at that. Whatever he might claim, without me he is nothing, and he knows it. It’s pleasant to be in charge once more. “And so, you contradict yourself yet again.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

I give him a slow, malicious smile. This is how it’s done, little amateur, watch and learn. “Only that you’re too quick to declare your independence when you’re an overgrown will-of-the-wisp, forced into following me about like an unwanted cur.”

For the moment, he appears to be out of cheeky retorts.

“I do hope you’re house trained,” I add, just to see him wince.

It could’ve been worse. At least I don’t have to worry about breakages from the sheer overabundance of his awkward fluttering about. With Potter’s clumsiness, an insubstantial, accident-proof body is a real improvement. Improvement? Ha! I never expected to be bothered again, either by the vagaries of ghosts or by the impossibility of improving Potter. How absurd!

*

_So, verse and prose, they came together._  
No ice and flame, no stormy weather  
And granite, were so far apart… 

I find even _Onegin_ doesn’t distract me from my troubles any longer.

“Oi, Snape. Why’d you keep all those newspapers?” What is the brat blathering about? He points at the stack of old, yellowing newsprint in the corner.

Why should I explain myself to him? I pointedly ignore him as I stand up and put _Onegin_ back in its place on the shelf.

He frowns in concentration, and with a subtle rustle, the top sheet lifts up and floats down onto the floor. The brat doesn’t give up, does he?

“May 1998,” he declares, as if the date is in any way significant. “And another one from May.” He concentrates, and more newspapers fly off the stack, spreading dust and the acrid scents of cheap paper and ink.

“Stop that at once!” I will not allow him to cause any more mess.

“Look, even the Daily Prophet.” He looks particularly pleased with that discovery. The paper twists and turns, caught in a non-existent whirlwind. “What d’you know: Gringotts in ruins and my photo on the cover. Was it the final edition? I’m curious, where were you that day?” he asks in loudly accusing tones, “Did you find a hidey-hole to cower in as soon as your Mark stopped itching?”

He can malign me until the righteous fury starts fizzing out of his nostrils like steam, I don’t give a damn. Potter, however, could use a fast introduction to some cold, hard facts. “Didn’t you ever wonder what happened to Diagon Alley? I was there, and there was no hole left to Apparate into. Witches and wizards exhausted themselves trying to restore some semblance of order, but they couldn’t recover from the resulting magical fatigue. Buildings whose foundations were upheld by magic had collapsed, and the Floo network had shut down. I survived, and if that’s cowardly by your standards, I couldn’t possibly care less.”

All is quiet. Then the papers rustle once more, caught by the draught. “Oh, bravo!” Potter golf-claps three times. “Did you keep the Prophet as a souvenir? Bet it’ll be worth a fortune someday.”

“Perhaps it will.”

More papers fly up in the air and circle my room, rapidly filling it with whispering rustles. It’s like standing in the middle of a whirlwind, only the air stirred by the floating papers isn’t strong enough to carry them this far. Potter eyes the room littered with Muggle tabloids and other more reliable sources of information. Then he moves closer; his feet sink into the papers or step through them. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes. It strikes me how much he looks like his father used to look, just before he did something especially vicious and cruel.

“You’ve kept them just for that then? No other reason at all?” He sneers at me, maliciously, in a way I’ve often seen in the mirror. “A dirty big stack of papers, and all of ‘em from ‘98. Coincidence? Bollocks it is!”

Even his father never smiled so deliberately, just gloated in his make-believe superiority. I square my shoulders and glare back at him.

“You’ll help me, Snape. Y’know why? You want magic back as much as I do. You’re just too much of a coward to do anything about it besides collecting old rags!”

“Don’t call me COWARD!” I roar amid a sudden rushing whirlwind of newspapers.

The wind fades, and the sheets of newsprint flutter to the floor. “I was right then,” Potter declares softly, with a look of intense satisfaction on his face. My floor is covered in crumpled, torn paper. Silence hangs in the dusty air, piercing and harsh, filled with paper cuts and stirred up memories.

One point to the persistent prat for being too observant for his own good, not to mention mine. “Don’t count on too much effort on my part.” And that is all the acknowledgement he is going to get. “Clean up my floor!”

He snorts. “I’ll clean up your newspapers if you’ll clean up your sodding whiskey bottles. How much do you drink nowadays?”

Perceptive little bugger. “Is this your Golden Gryffindor Good Deed for the week? Or do you always strive to help the needy in such a manner?” I will not allow anything he says to affect me. It doesn’t. It won’t. The brat must’ve drawn one too many erroneous conclusions. I can handle my liquor. And what the hell do I care about what he thinks of me?

“I’m surprised you haven’t gone up in flames from one of your candles yet. Can’t be good for you,” he mutters.

Ah, then I shall comply at once: Saint Potter, my eternal gratitude goes to you for fixing my life with your off-handed remark. I should relieve him of his annoying little fantasy that the world revolves around him, but it’s not worth the effort. It’s time to get rid of him once and for all.

“Very well. I’ll take you to see one survivor, and that’s it. After that, you will stop pestering me altogether. You can haunt someone else or go back to where you came from; I don’t care one way or the other.”

He didn’t expect an easy victory, did he? Surprised, he looks up, “And the bottles?”

I growl, “Don’t push your luck.”

“It’s a deal then,” he shrugs. “Take me to see someone and I’ll leave you alone.”

I hide a triumphant smirk. I can’t shake his hand or hold him to an oath, but this will have to do. My luck is finally changing for the better.

*

When I walk back in from the kitchen, the newspapers are swept into an uneven pile in the corner. He’s huddled next to the radiator, head down in apparent exhaustion. His translucent form flickers like a candle on a windy day. It doesn’t look as though he’s up to doing much more.

“That’s enough.” It’s not that I’m taking pity on him. I simply doubt I can expect any more from a ghost. If numerous detentions couldn’t hone his cleaning skills back when he was a student, it’s a lost cause by now.

“Bossy git,” he gives me a defiant look before collapsing next to the newspapers. He glances at the old headlines and snorts. “Did the Muggles really think you were immigrants?”

That’s nowhere near the strangest rumour the gossip rags ran that summer: banner headlines were screaming about everything from cloning experiments to alien conspiracies. “Muggles believe whatever their government tells them.”

His eyes widen. “So their government knew?”

“Indeed; they did their best to make sure we were properly disarmed and compliant, before tossing us out onto the street.”

“Why didn’t you fight back? All of you, together!” he sputters indignantly.

Always fighting something; how predictable. If he wasn’t already dead by then, his attitude would have changed that in a day. “You didn’t live to see that summer. We were homeless, powerless, unable to pass back through the wards. To survive, everyone had to fend for himself.”

He frowns, quiet and still. Didn’t expect that, did you, Potter?

“The government officials offered us food and shelter, in exchange for confiscating our surviving magical artefacts and putting us into a ‘rehabilitation program’. There was no other choice.”

“Why’d the Muggles take wands and things? S’not like they could use ’em,” he frowns with all the persistence of a child demanding his favourite toy.

I let out a weary sigh. “No. But that way, they could ensure we wouldn’t.”

He’s silent, no doubt contemplating the reality of ‘unfairness’ on such a mass scale for the first time in his life. It’s taken him long enough to notice the ways of the world. Finally he glances at my bed in the corner, at the rumpled blanket and the thin pillow that I know is hiding a twelve-inch stick of birch wood.

“You kept your wand.”

He noticed. If only he’d paid this much attention to his Occlumency lessons, things might’ve turned out differently.

“I had a choice that the others didn’t.”

He raises an inquiring eyebrow. “What choice?”

“That’s none of your concern.” At last, the brat’s beginning to recognise when to stop his irritating inquiries. Good. Tomorrow I’ll do as he asks, and maybe then he’ll leave me in peace. I suppose it wouldn’t kill me to tolerate his presence until then.

*

It’s so dark. I smell mud and mould. Where’s my wand? For the last seven years I’ve muttered incantations while I clutched that useless bit of birch, and now — when magic’s crackling and swirling inside me again, eager to be used — the bloody wand’s not on me.

Something creaks in the distance: I know it’s at one end of the narrow tunnel I’m crouching in. Now I can hear a impatient scraping noise, like a dog pawing at a door. I know this place. This won’t end well. It never does.

The creaking intensifies. Perhaps I can still escape, if I run hard enough. Or perhaps if I stay right here and wait for the beast, it will all end faster.

Blindly I stumble into the moss-covered walls; hanging roots scratch at my face. A clammy breeze breathes chill against my neck. My heart hammers so loudly it echoes in my ears. I hold my breath, trying to be quiet. Hah! As if it couldn’t smell my fear. As if there’s anywhere I could hide in here. The creaking rises to a crunch of splintering wood, and then there’s the fast, quiet drumbeat of running paws. Too late, the hunt has begun. The beast is out. It can move so much faster than I could ever run through this low tunnel.

But I run anyway; terror has me, as surely as the beast will have me, and I can’t help myself. I trip over a rock and nearly fall; I just manage to catch myself and stumble onward, panting, desperate, faster, faster! It’s catching up to me; if I turn round I know I’ll see its eyes glowing yellow. There’s a hungry, predatory growl. If only I had my wand! I turn a corner — yes, the mouth of the tunnel is there, a circle of sweet light — but the beast is close, too close; I feel a gust of air against my back. Someone help! Let it end quickly.

The light ahead of me moves, changes shape, and suddenly I’m no longer alone.

“Potter!”

His ghostly form shines much brighter than I’ve ever seen; pale tendrils of energy unfurl around his head like an aura. It’s hard to tell where his messy hair ends and those fine threads begin. “Take my hand.” He stretches his arm out at chest level, offering his hand to me, palm up. His voice is calm and confident; and without even willing it, I reach for him.

I expect my fingers to slide through him, as always happens with ghosts, but the hand I touch is solid. It doesn’t feel warm and supple like human skin, but like putting my hand against a ward: sparking with stray energy, strong but very slightly yielding as his magic reacts to mine. His fingers wrap firmly around my wrist, and a sharp tingling spills through me at the contact. My arm jerks involuntarily. He gives a small, tense smile, and nods, satisfied. “Close your eyes.”

With the sound of the monster’s running feet behind me and the feel of Potter’s grip firm on me, I comply. A ferocious snarl, right at my back, hits me with fetid breath and terror. HELP ME!

Silence. Even Potter’s hand in mine fades into nothing.

*

What just happened?

I was braced for agony: claws and fangs tearing into my flesh, merciless jaws crushing my bones. My throat was tensed to scream, desperate and choking on my own blood; and then I expected to wake up in my bed, safe and sound (and sweating and shaking). I thought my nightmare would be over.

But instead of devouring torment, I feel nothing. Instead of blood and sweat and beast, I smell chalk dust and ink. Instead of my own dying cries and the growls of the beast as it eats me alive, I hear the soft, familiar scratch of a quill against parchment. With an effort, I force my eyelids open.

My hand drifts down to rest on the smooth surface of my Potions worktable, next to a porcelain cup full of crushed wormwood. A bag beside that reeks of asphodel. The walls are lined with shelves full of bottles and bags of dried and dead things: snake skin and tarragon, bergamot and absinthe, all flawlessly arranged in their proper places. Everything is as it should be, except for one thing.

I am still panting, shaken by my race with the werewolf. The beast is familiar, but this dream is brand new. For that reason alone, I should probably be more worried than I am.

A single student sits where a crammed classroom terrified into silence should have been. He looks calm and orderly enough, but he doesn’t quite suit his surroundings, like the stuffed vulture on the top shelf that I’ve wanted to get rid of for years. He’s making entirely too much noise for one person, with his sighing, the scratching of his owl quill, and the way he shifts back and forth on his chair. All those unpredictable little sounds are a bother.

But not nearly as much of a bother as he is.

He’s neither a ghost nor a firstie with awful spectacles and a penchant for trouble. His robes have texture and colour, his red and gold tie are bright once more. He looks just as he did before the final battle, hidden away from the Dark Lord’s eyes in ‘temporary headquarters’. Eleven or seventeen makes no difference to me, I tell myself; he’s the same arrogant nitwit who trailed after the Order members like that attention-starved cur Black, demanding to know where he was and why the Headmaster felt the need to hide information from him. As if a direct dream-link to Voldemort wasn’t a good enough reason for a thousand Obliviates.

His quill-point scrapes dryly against the parchment. Something isn’t right, but I can’t decide what it is. I’m not supposed to be here and neither is he.

The scratching stops. Potter looks up, curious as ever. “Sir, what’s next?”

“Silence!” Impudent brat! No student should dare to interrupt my lectures. Twenty points from Gryffindor ought to teach him. I’d better make it thirty, for prying into things he shouldn’t meddle in.

“Fine! If you’re gonna to be like that, next time I’ll leave you in your bloody tunnel!” He rises to his feet. “I pulled you out of a nightmare, the least you can do is show some gratitude!”

So it is Potter after all. The brat who invaded my flat can also wander in and out of my nightmares any time he pleases. He’s just full of surprises.

“What is this place?” I look around once more, just to make sure that Potter wasn’t annoyed enough to let the beast in to resume its interrupted meal.

“Hogwarts, of course,” Potter replies with all the wide-eyed earnestness of Miss Lovegood explaining nargles to my first-years. “Welcome back.”

I remind myself that I only have to endure his presence until tomorrow. It won’t hurt to explore, while I’m here. I dip my finger into a soft leather bag filled with brown powder, rub the fine grains between my fingers, and sniff cautiously. Sure enough, it feels just like cinnamon and certainly smells like it, but logic tells me that my senses are being fooled in a most intricate way. “This isn’t real.”

“Real enough,” Potter grins. “I made it.”

Most cautiously, I sniff the powder again: once, twice. The scent turns to chocolate, then coffee. I glance at my fingertips; instead of cinnamon they’re coated now in finely-ground coffee beans. “You ‘made’ this?” I throw him an openly surprised look.

He must’ve noticed my fascination because his grin turns quite smug. “I made all of it. Do you like it?” He spreads his arms and turns slowly, pointing here and there, very much like a young artist who’s spent the last seven years of his life painting a chapel and only now has a chance to show off his handiwork.

The level of detail is astonishing, for a dream. “Quite accurate,” I have to give him that. Everything in this room is impeccable: not just its appearance, but the sounds, the scents, the cool and damp in the air. If I didn’t know better, I could swear I was back at Hogwarts again. In fact, it seems so real that I have to restrain myself from looking for a narrow phial with an inconspicuous label on the third rack from the door, fifth shelf down: the phial whose contents would rid me of my scar. This isn’t real, I remind myself; it’s just mind games, and I’m capable of dealing with those.

He smiles as if those two simple words of mine are the highest praise. “I had plenty of time.”

“Can you create anything?” I tear my gaze away from the marvellous illusions around us, and watch him pace aimlessly.

“Anything I remember well enough.” His voice rings through the silent room and echoes faintly off the ceiling.

He claps his hands, and the surroundings come to life. They vibrate, flicker, and finally turn into the dungeon stairway, then the infirmary; the infirmary’s pristine walls shift into the murky entrance to the headmaster’s office, and then everything changes back to my classroom. “You haven’t seen half of it yet,” he declares; he seems a bit tired now, but he’s still just as proud.

I’m a bit light-headed myself from the kaleidoscope-sudden changes of surroundings. I steady myself against the table, and look with an almost paranoid wariness at all the jars, bags, and bundles of dried plants scattered across its surface. What else could they turn into? The small leather bag starts smelling of cinnamon again.

Cheeky brat. “Any similarity between this and my classroom must be a mere coincidence. I don’t recall you ever paying much attention in my presence.”

He throws me a stubborn glance with his lips pressed together in a thin line and his chin sticking out: quite the rebellious young fool. “I did, actually. If I wrote things down it helped me remember.”

Oh, really? As if those were actually Potions notes he’d scribbled on his parchment during my classes. “A likely story.”

“Knew you wouldn’t believe me.” He shrugs and alters the surroundings once again. I recognise this new place as the stone steps leading up to one of the many Hogwarts doors, the kind that serve as an exit but never as an entrance. I open the door and look out at a broad sky ablaze in a glorious sunset. The air smells of moss and fog, and has the crisp freshness of wide-open spaces. A faint breeze carries the scent of heather from the hills. It’s warm enough to be late spring or early summer. The bright orange sun hangs low above the forest and paints the ancient stone towers behind us in gold and pink.

Young blades of grass poke through the cracks here and there in the greying stone. The spread wings of the twin gargoyle statues cast long purple shadows across the heavy wooden door.

I settle down on a plinth where a stone gargoyle rests. I lean back against its rigid, sun-warmed claws and chest, tilt my face up, and just breathe: slow, deep lungfuls of that fresh, lukewarm air, such a pleasant change from the London smog. It’s been a long day, and there’s something about this place that’s welcoming; it feels like the sort of escape from humdrum routine that I haven’t had in years. Besides, it’s my dream; I have a right to sit down if I wish.

“Nice, innit? I used to hide here a lot.”

I smirk at that. What troubles would a ghost have to escape from anyway?

Potter skips down over a couple of high steps, long-limbed and awkward, then changes his mind halfway through and claims the vacant gargoyle next to mine. He climbs its ridged spine as if climbing the branches of a tree, and settles down right between its wings, before giving me an inquiring look. It implies a question: How’d I do? I pretend not to notice his childish act. He hasn’t done too badly, especially if he’s doing an impression of a knight-wannabe toddler who finally managed to tame his first mount, a rocking thestral. Mind you, if he’d faced the right direction, he’d appear a bit more of a rational toddler. Alas, it’s too much to expect from him.

He looks to the west, shielding his glasses from direct sunlight with the back of his hand. He starts to murmur, low and imprecise. He doesn’t seem to care if I’m listening to him; for all I can tell, he might be addressing the statues or the sun.

“Things happened at Hogwarts. Always changing so fast, never for the better.” I catch him saying. “This is… as I remember it. As I want to remember it. But the real Hogwarts…” He shakes his head slightly, and smiles the sort of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “The house elves disappeared, and Peeves was a menace without the Bloody Baron around to keep him in line. He threatened to raze the whole castle to the ground all by himself.”

He chuckles at his own words and glances over. When I don’t respond his shoulders droop. “I s’pose you just had to be there.”

He continues, in a desperate and ragged tone, as if he’s a firstie, fighting back tears of homesickness. “It just kept getting worse, never better. I couldn’t get onto the Quidditch pitch, not even to the sheds, and Merlin only knows what shape the brooms’re in. I couldn’t even read, ‘cause the library was warded and the Gryffindor commons were overrun with moths and I couldn’t even shoo ‘em off and the spiders spun webs across the corridors and I couldn’t get rid of a single cobweb I was so bloody helpless!”

I let him rant. Perhaps he’s just content to have another listener besides the gargoyles. When he runs out of steam, I simply let the silence stand, a mute yet eloquent commentary on his outburst.

He looks down at me from his perch, and his face slowly acquires a hint of colour about the cheeks, as his gaze slips away from mine. When he continues, his voice is quiet and pensive once more.

“Some things stayed. The Squid’s still in the lake, nothing kills that thing. And all the owls — they left the Owlery for some reason — they were roosting everywhere.” He blinks and looks at me forlornly, more at sea now than he ever was, even when he arrived at Hogwarts for the first time. In a very small voice he concludes, “Mine was never with them.”

What? Well, I am not his bloody owl’s keeper. The brat seems to have lost whatever marbles he had left. Was he alone all those years with only moths and spiders and owls for company? I imagine that’d be enough to turn even a rational being into a lunatic. Someone like Potter never stood a chance.

The lunatic in question seems to be waiting for an answer to some unspoken inquiry. I clear my throat. “Was anyone else at Hogwarts with you? Other ghosts?”

“Nobody.” He shakes his head. “Just Peeves and the portraits, but they hated me as much as they hated Peeves.”

That explains it perhaps. The brat was alone for years. Who knows what that did to him?

“I reckon there were others,” he says suddenly. “The mandrakes. Peeves said they lost their voices after … well, you know. And it must’ve been a relief, really. Anyway, he said they had their own little village made out of gardening pots in Greenhouse Three and used these odd little signs to tell each other off. I couldn’t even get past the greenhouses’ wards to see if he was talking a load of shite. But then one day as I was trying to look through all the smudges and stuff on the glass, I could see Devil’s Snare spreading inside. So that was it, no more mandrakes. The Devil’s Snare would’ve overgrown them. And I couldn’t even see if they were real before they were all killed.”

His grasp of reality seems shaky at best. After this little show of his, I wonder if Potter is madder than I thought. All ghosts are insane in some way; but then, so are people. We all have our little fixations, and this might just be his. It doesn’t matter. He and his mental quirks will be leaving tomorrow.

I settle down and get as comfortable as I can with the gargoyle’s paw digging into my back.

The sun sinks slowly toward the horizon, casting reddish highlights on purple and yellow clouds. It occurs to me that in this dream world of his Potter is probably controlling the sun. I find the thought ironic.

Potter runs out of things to tell me, and subsides to simply lie stretched over the gargoyle spine. His gaze is distant, fixated on nothing visible: probably a mental image of a mandrake civilisation arising like Fawkes from Hogwarts’ ashes. Just as I think that he’s not paying attention to me at all, he gives me a mutely eloquent look and nods toward the setting sun. And so, together we watch the make believe sunset on the make believe steps of a make believe castle.

It’s an oddly peaceful dream.

“G’night,” he murmurs when the last rays of the sun fade away, and as darkness falls I sleep, deep and free of further visions.

***

 

_Dryg moi dorogoj_ (Rus.) — my dear friend  
_Po-rysski, vnychek, po-rysski_ (Rus.) — In Russian, grandson, in Russian! (Olga’s ‘s’s sound like ‘sh’s).  
_Dobryi vecher_ (Rus.) — good evening  
_Gosti_ (Rus.) — guests.  
_Sudya po litcy, synok, eto libo pohorony libo grabezh, libo gosti naehali_ (Rus.) — Judging by your face, son, it’s a funeral, or a mugging, or some guests showing up.  
_Chaiy?_ (Rus.) — Tea?  
_Na zdorovie_ (Rus.) — Cheers (To your health).

The H. Prince pseudonym is inspired by Oscar Wilde’s _The Happy Prince._

_So, verse and prose, they came together._  
No ice and flame, no stormy weather  
And granite, were so far apart.  
At first, disparity of heart  
Rendered them tedious to each other;  
Then liking grew…  
   — Pushkin, _Evgeny Onegin_


	2. The Sage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to Sinick and Txilar. They work magic over my initial drafts. Sinick is also responsible for the 'marbles', Camden, and Tottenham Court Road in this chapter. I would've never thought to include them without her.

*

I walk into the kitchen to fix a pot of much needed coffee. As usual, Potter lingers next to the window, staring into the gloom of not-yet-awakened London. What’s less usual is the way he’s hovering: upside down. Grey pre-dawn light spills through his transparent form. In it I find my way to the stove and turn the knob. The burner spits out a rosette of hissing blue flames. I set a pot of water over them and fumble through the contents of my cabinet in the dark. Finally, my fingers close over the familiar brown bag and I shut the squeaky door.

“Night’s bloody boring for those of us who can’t sleep,” Potter complains, tense and edgy, hanging inverted like a chameleon off a branch, with his shiny large glasses and skinny, awkward limbs. His lips are in a thin line as if suppressing a yawn, and his hair sticks out around his head like a halo. Or like bed-head, as if the brat had slept after all. “Morning, Snape.”

“We’re leaving in fifteen minutes,” I bark, “Be ready.” What? Did he expect a civil conversation and a greeting?

“What, where?” He looks shocked.

“I’m fulfilling my side of the bargain, Potter. I should hope that you will be as quick to fulfil yours.”

He stares at me, uncomprehending. When finally it dawns on him, he somersaults like a giant rotating hourglass until he’s upright with his back to the window. “The survivor!” he cries, “You’re really taking me, aren’t you? Bloody hell, I didn’t think it’d be so soon!” 

I glance at the clock hanging above the table. It’s almost five a. m., as good a time as any. If we hurry, we might beat the morning rush. “We can always set the date back a year or two, if it’s an inconvenience,” I sneer.

“No, no, today is fine,” he grins widely and looks ready to dance. “It’s brilliant!”

Yes, indeed: never a better time to get rid of an irritating ghost. 

“So, where is it? Who is it? Tell me! Do I know them?” He’s so excited he’d be breathless, if only that were possible.

“You’ll see when we get there. I might just change my mind if you continue this incessant questioning.”

“Fine,” he consents, but continues asking nonetheless all the way through my morning coffee.

“Hope it’s someone I know,” he exclaims going around in circles like an over-exuberant pup as I put away the milk and the sugar and rinse out the cup. “Anyway, they’ll know me. They’ll listen to me. Together we’ll figure out something, you’ll see, Snape.” He glances at me defiantly, ready to take on the world.

Naïve little brat. I snort and stare him down. “Don’t be so hopeful,” I finally manage to say. The boy really has no idea, does he? Doesn’t matter, after today he isn’t my problem. The next time I’m back here, he won’t be constantly getting in my way. What a relief that will be.

I march into the bedroom and take out a wrapped parcel from the bottom of my wardrobe. Potter eyes it curiously but doesn’t ask. I empty out one pocket of my coat to take the parcel. Several banknotes folded neatly into squares and a set of keys are replaced in my left pocket, joining my wand, which I’d already taken from underneath my pillow. Perhaps it’s not sensible to take my wand with me in case it’s discovered, but leaving it in the flat wouldn’t be sensible either. If someone in power suspects me of possessing magical artefacts, they will not be above breaking into my home to search for them. Useless though it is, I’d rather have this narrow stick of birch with me at all times. 

“Is it someone from Hogwarts? Did they go there? I’ll tell them that the school is still standing – they’ll probably be glad to hear that.”

Potter rambles on like a cheerful pup yipping for joy at the prospect of a walk. It’s a wonder he isn’t leaping up and down the hallway and bouncing off the walls stirring dust and mischief. I put on my coat and button it up to the very top. The heavy dark cloth reminds me a little of my robes: it wraps me in another layer of protection, like the walls of a fortress. The collar goes up as well, under the lank curtain of hair at my nape. Potter is fortunate not having to deal with the morning chill.

With my hand on the door handle, I turn to him. “Are you coming?”

I’m expecting the infuriating ghost will rush right through me and the closed door in a hurry to get out, leaving everything else behind in hopeless disarray like my toothbrush and my soap, like the stack of newspapers he scattered all around my floor. Like my life.

He stays still in the murky hallway.

I wait.

“I know I must’ve been a pain on the arse these few days, but thank you, Snape. I really mean it.”

Foolish boy. I turn away and let my face resume its former blankness before speaking. “Don’t thank me yet,” I throw over my shoulder and swing the door open, motioning to it with my eyes. “After you.”

  
* 

The dirty staircase fascinates Potter. He dashes back and forth, always a few steps before me, glancing at the multiple doors with their faded paint and aluminium numbers and knobs. He’d never seen any of it before, had he? After all, he didn’t just walk up the stairs and ring my doorbell like an ordinary visitor.

He pauses when I step outside and sticks his head out like a rat peering from its hole to see if a snake’s around. He then rushes into the light of early morning spinning on the sidewalk and taking in the surroundings: brick buildings and patches of dirt that were originally meant to be flowerbeds, but didn’t survive the rough treatment. 

“Are we going there?” he waves at the neighbouring building and the line of trees behind it, where he knows the train tracks run. “How close are we to King’s Cross?” 

I cast him an angry glance. Foolish child, this isn’t some primary school excursion, and I’m not his nanny. And to the left, dears, is Platform 9¾, where the big boys leave from to go to school every year. Do watch out for the Muggles and come along now, no lollygagging. 

“Would others be able to see you?” I ask, looking him up and down. Although he’s faded in the light of day, Potter is still quite visible to me.

He shakes his head, “Not unless I make an effort.”

“Good.” Stay invisible to them, infuriating child, and keep out of my way. I do not want to shock random passers-by in my efforts to avoid stumbling into an unseen form, any more than I want them blinking at the sight of a transparent, bumbling imbecile trailing by my side. “Follow and don’t attract attention.” I duck through a narrow arch nearby and turn into the alleyway, into the ever-present stench of boiled fish and rotten onions, where my footsteps raise brittle echoes in the cold, stale air between the two closely placed brick walls. 

Two street turns later I check to see if he is still behind me. He huddles behind my back as if attempting to protect himself from the harsh wind. If I didn’t know better, I’d say he is shivering. Nonsense. Ghosts don’t need warmth; lucky him. I tug my collar closer to cover my throat and keep walking, past Regent’s Park and the turnoff to Euston Station.

As I’m waiting on a streetlight in front of the empty crosswalk Potter pokes his head from behind my shoulder and drifts up until his face is illuminated by the light’s red glow. It seeps through the back of his head, rays refracting through his messy hair, turning it to a blood-red halo. Suddenly the red winks out and Killing Curse green flares through his chest instead. He flinches backward, out of the glare.

He frowns and remains silent until we cross the road, then reverts to his usual, obnoxiously carefree self.

  
*

The Tottenham Court Road Underground entrance is mostly empty at this hour. I turn into it and descend the stairs thankful for any protection from the harsh wind. Potter follows close as he did throughout the trip; only his gaze wanders far and wide. His hair is in disarray from constant, fruitless attempts to rearrange the fringe over his forehead. As if anyone can see him, let alone his blasted scar. It’s on the tip of my tongue to berate him for his foolish vanity, but I have no wish to seem a fool or a madman myself in the eyes of the few passers-by. 

And few indeed they are: at this early hour there is hardly anyone in sight. Even the blind violin musician so fond of playing “Lucy in the Sky” is gone from his usual spot next to an especially bright patch of the mosaic mural. 

The train isn’t due for some time yet. The Central Line platform is empty. Away from the tracks, in a disarray of newspaper sheets and handfuls of strategically placed dirt sits a homeless couple. The old man, with long, matted beard and mismatched, ragged clothing, swings his hands back and forth as if conducting a nonexistent orchestra, rattling a bracelet of rainbow beads around his wrist. He pauses to say something enthusiastic and nonsensical to the equally ragged-looking old hag on his left. Her peaceful smile is unmoved by each ranting outburst as she sits slumped against the wall. An occasional, startling snore and a few twitches of her arms are the only signs that she is alive at all. The movements clank oddly against the tiles; one of her hands is gone, and in its place is an artificial claw, a metallic Muggle contraption. 

Potter glides past them without a second thought. He regards the platform and sticks his head over the tracks, then floats down and balances himself over the rails. “Always wanted to do that,” he grins. “Are we taking the tube? ‘Bout time. I’m tired of walking the streets.”

The old man hums “Ring-a-ring-a-rosy” contentedly and takes a handful of marbles out of his pocket. I watch him push the marbles into the small piles of dirt one by one. Some marbles are buried in pairs, some in solitary graves, and others are set aside altogether by some strange logic known only to him.

“It’s silly to walk all the way here if you ask me.” Potter says zooming back and forth across the tracks. “Where are we going anyway?”

I do not answer his silly questioning. The man starts tracing long series of planetary seals with his fingernail over the makeshift marble graves. Mercury, Saturn, and Pluto are mixed in with the series of digits in a neat numerological layout I learned during my one and only year of Arithmancy. He doesn’t finish, apparently distracted by the imaginary match of noughts-and-crosses taking place right in front of his nose. 

I shake my head at the ghost and clutch the parcel in my pocket. “We’re here, Potter.” I might as well get this over with quickly.

“But where’s the . . .” He looks around, not comprehending yet.

Slowly, I nod toward the couple in the corner and take a step toward them. The woman coughs and splutters awake. She glances at me with her unfocused, bloodshot eyes and displays a toothless grin. I hand her the parcel and motion toward her oblivious companion. “Make sure he gets it.”

“Thanks, son,” she mutters cheerfully and rips away the wrapping with her good hand to reveal a pair of brightly coloured socks. Yelizaveta’s knitting, of course. She tucks them away in one of her many pockets.

Potter looks at her for a while, searching for a glimpse of something, perhaps a flash of familiar features. Slowly his expression dims from hopeful to unsure before settling into the gloom of disappointment. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it in her face. And then his glance slides lower to the ranting old man, huddled with his marbles in the dirt.

He stares.

The man’s tall, yet fragile form folds at an extreme angle into the space where the brightly speckled mural meets the floor. Give him a stronger push and he’ll break apart, scattering against the hard surface like a handful of his marbles. There are thin ribbons woven into his dull white beard, the festive kind people tie around their gifts on holidays and birthdays. He must have one to match every colour used in the mural behind him. The high-heeled boots on his feet look oddly like a woman’s shoes. I take a second glance. Perhaps they are. 

Even now, after I’ve had years to get over the initial shock of my discovery, I still do not dare to call him Albus in my mind. The Albus Dumbledore I knew is where he belongs, at Hogwarts. His striped ‘bumblebee’ dish of odd-tasting sweets sits on the table. An occasional phoenix quill sticks out daintily behind his ear. The laugh lines around his eyes deepen with time, familiar to my eyes as the cracks in his chipped china or the creases of my own hand. Albus Dumbledore, the strongest wizard of his time. But his time has passed, and there are no wizards left any longer. Still, this man isn’t him. He cannot be.

“Can’t be. No!” Potter shakes his head frantically.

The man raises his eyes, sky blue and unfocused on his wrinkled, unwashed face. There’s a sparkle hiding in their depths.

The train arrives, roaring and screeching, onto the station, coming to a stop with an extended hiss. The doors open and several figures stumble out, hastily making their way up the escalators. 

Potter doesn’t notice them.

“Headmaster,” he says in a shaky voice. “Can you hear me?”

The man looks alert for a second but then his eyes drift and focus on someone in the small crowd walking past us to the exit.

“Cherish the moment, my boy,” he says, quietly but clearly. He reaches out his wrinkled hand right through Potter in order to chase something invisible to us. “It flew by already. Pity.” Potter jumps back a step but the man pays no attention to him. “Hurry!” he exclaims after the last person to rush onto the escalator, “Cherish the next one.”

“Can you hear me?” Potter repeats.

“He won’t answer,” I say after making sure that no one besides the homeless couple is there to listen. “He only hears what he chooses to hear nowadays.” Which is, perhaps, for the best.

The old man, _this_ Dumbledore, picks his toys out of the dirt and polishes them clean with his sleeve. The marbles have been cracked and chipped in places, but haven’t lost their shine. Tentatively, he selects one, a deep methylene blue, from the set and stares through it with a curious eye, like a diviner peering into a crystal ball. His gaze wanders back and forth until finally it stops on me. 

“You look blue today, Severus,” Dumbledore says, one eye still peering through the marble, the other closed. “Have the students treated you badly?”

For just a moment, I am convinced he sees, truly sees what is happening. Alas, the moment passes and so does my conviction.

“Tell Minerva hello, she’s been worried about you,” he waves toward his neighbour. At that, the woman next to him rolls her eyes and gives me another toothless grin. Obviously she’s grown used to his naming quirks long ago.

“He knows who you are,” Potter cries out in relief. “Tell him that I am here, Snape. Tell him to _look_.”

Tiredly I slump against the wall and rub the bridge of my nose in hopes of postponing the pain starting to throb inside my head. “I won’t do that.” 

I cannot do that. Who am I to persuade Albus to leave his happy little universe and shiny toys? What have I to offer him in return? The bleak reality? He is probably the last one of us to think that magic still exists. In his world, everything unfolded according to his plan: the Boy-Who-Lived defeated the Dark Lord and we all live happily ever after. Who am I to rob Albus Dumbledore of his grand delusion? It’s the last thing he has left.

“Tell him. You owe me this much!” Potter demands.

I rest the back of my head against the wall and take a deep breath. It was a bad idea to bring Potter here. Why didn’t I see it earlier?

“Promise you’ll go easier on yourself, my dear boy. You are starting to look more and more like Fawkes. Every day has been a burning day for him lately.” Dumbledore sighs and sets the marble aside. I don’t get a chance to nod my obligatory and pointless agreement before he does. Too late.

“I won’t do it, Potter.”

“But why?”

Why? Because I know what it’s like to make the most terrible mistake with the best of intentions. Because Albus doesn’t deserve the guilt that would follow. Because I owe much more to the memory of Albus than what Potter fancies I owe him. Would Potter prefer my list of reasons sorted alphabetically and in writing for later perusal? 

“Knowing the truth would hurt him most terribly,” I finally say. The old hag casts me a disinterested look at that and nods off again. She must’ve grown used to hearing people talk to thin air. I don’t even know her real name: the only one I’ve ever heard is Minerva.

“We’re a part of the universe,” Dumbledore mutters to no one in particular and picks up another marble, a faded green with a ghostly-white swirl. “The universe is a part of us as well.” He rolls it between his thumb and forefinger and looks through it at the artificial white lights. “Do we live in the universe, or does the universe live in us?” he exclaims positioning the marble to get a good view of the empty tracks and the brightly coloured wall mosaics. Potter slumps beside him with a lost expression on his face. 

“It’s not him. It can’t be him,” I hear Potter whispering. Then he stills and stares at Dumbledore in some kind of shocked, befuddled wonder.

Dumbledore stares right back at him.

Potter opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out. I hold my breath. Could this be?

“Oddment!” Dumbledore lets out a startled gasp, as if he’d caught a glimpse of something unexpected in the depths of his makeshift crystal ball. His hand shakes and the marble slides past his fingers onto his palm and drops down onto the dull white tiles of the platform floor.

I reach for it. After years of minding clumsy pupils in close proximity to glassware and acids, it’s no more than an instinct. 

Too late. It shatters.

Brittle, jagged shards of glass explode against my fingers.

I must be getting old; my instincts are failing. But it’s only a marble; it doesn’t matter. 

It seems to have mattered to him, however. 

Dumbledore gazes at the glistening splatter of shards on the floor as mournfully as if the entire world was contained in that glass ball, a world that came to a quick and ruthless end. “I’ve lost another one entrusted to my care so long ago,” he murmurs, like an elegy.

I inspect my hand for damage. Not too much, considering the impact. As I pluck a couple of needlepoint glass pieces out of my index finger, Dumbledore leans over with the blasted methylene blue marble in front of his eye again and winces at the sight of blood.

"I'm sorry, Severus, that must've hurt. But then, my boy, you always were doing exactly that."

Moments like these make me wonder if Albus is the only sane person out of all of us and I’m the one who is mad. A madman with delusions of a ghost conveniently invisible to the sane majority.

No matter how loud Potter tries to shout after that, or which marbles he tries to get in front of, Dumbledore doesn’t respond to him at all. 

He talks to me some more, always in short, delirious phrases: asks me to be kinder to Minerva, and out of the blue he starts the story of the birth of the chimaera. “Once upon a time, a goat with a snake for a tail had wandered into the lion’s den . . .”

He never finishes it.

The platform fills with people at certain intervals of time, always busy, always coming and going somewhere, never paying too much attention to our corner.

“Doesn’t anyone take care of him? Any family?” Potter questions when he gives up on his most recent fruitless attempt to get Dumbledore’s attention.

“Aberforth refused to leave Hogsmeade during the final battle,” I say. “That should sufficiently answer your question.”

“Oh.” He glances suspiciously at the old woman napping against the wall. “Friends then?”

Does he ever give up? “Weren’t you paying attention, Potter?” I snap. “Yes, he has friends: ‘Minerva’, marbles, every stranger from here to the Northern Line, what more do you want?”

My outburst startles the old woman out of her sleep. She glances at me questioningly and furrows her short, thick eyebrows.

Potter looks like a fish desperately gasping for water and getting only air instead. “What do I want?” he cries, “I want magic back! I want him to hear a single word I say. I want the walls to stay solid for a change. I want you to stop being a bloody git and say SOMETHING to me without making me feel like a firstie all over again! But who gives a damn WHAT I want because NONE of it will ever bloody HAPPEN, WILL it?”

“If you don’t wish to be treated like a first-year then stop bloody behaving like one!” I shout back at him. My words echo at me from the tiled walls and ceiling. As they finish ringing in the air I realise how strange they must’ve sounded to the rest of the world without anything to prompt them.

The old woman called Minerva frowns and throws me a very displeased look. “Go on,” she says. “Find yourself another corner, son. There’re plenty for everyone. If you’re just going to disturb him, you might as well leave.” A stern gaze lets me know I’ve overstayed my welcome. She eyes me like a dragon with a single egg eyes a hunter in the distance.

Albus leans over to her, reacting not so much to my shout but to the worried tones of her voice. “Hush, Minerva,” he whispers. “Watch closer.” He motions her to lean forward, pushes his beard aside, and tugs his breast pocket open. “Look, there are pixies hiding in that one, and an odd dust bunny or two. Who knows what kind of house they might build if we’ll let them live and prosper together?”

Surprised, I watch years of tension disappear from the woman’s unfriendly face. She looks down at Dumbledore and grins. Her whole face lights up. “Yes,” she says cautiously and stares into the empty pocket as if it contains the most wondrous creatures of the world and the slightest sudden movement can scare them away. Whatever her own mental state is, clearly she is far more able than I am to understand him now. When she looks up, apparently in order to ask me to leave once more, her expression is mild.

She doesn’t ask me after all.

Instead she reaches into her rucksack and pulls out a half-empty bag of potato crisps and a bottle of water setting them down on the newspaper corner free of dirt. “Let’s get you some breakfast, dearie,” she says and starts the obviously familiar task of holding out the crisps one by one. Once in awhile she flicks an angry glance in my direction but she remains quiet.

Potter gives them one last look and turns away as the old man leans forward eating the crisp from her fingers, open-mouthed like a baby phoenix struggling amid the pile of his ragged, ash-coloured garments. “I’ve seen enough.”

I’ve felt like an intruder in this scene for some time now. “It’s time to go home,” I agree.

“Yes, home,” Potter echoes absentmindedly.

I take my chance when Dumbledore is holding a marble to his eye again and step in front of him. “I have to go now. Good bye. Take care of him, Minerva.” 

“Merry meet, merry part, merry meet again.” Dumbledore waves cheerfully. “Don’t get too attached to spirits, my boy. It’s not good for your health.” 

I make a point of not looking in Potter’s direction, so I don’t have to see him gawping at me. Instead I turn around, find my way around the small crowd gathering at the platform and head toward the exit.

At the escalator I glance back at the raggedy figures against the shiny, white tiles. All the oranges and reds of the brightly-coloured mural above them look like a pair of widely spread wings. Two wings on fire, like a phoenix on his burning day.

  
*

I’ve witnessed Muggles survive under Cruciatus for hours and still scream out their powerless attempts at curses. I’ve seen wizards half-buried under tons of rubble from buildings that collapsed when the magic in their foundations ran out. They were still holding on to useless wands, muttering _Leviosa_ as long as breath lasted. Everything I’ve seen and heard convinces me that hope is the foremost thing that we hold on to and the last thing we lose. 

I hadn’t lost hope when my house wards gave way, when I stumbled into the entrance of a small church with a swollen, raw Apparation wound slicing through my chest, razor-thin, but most probably fatal. 

I hadn’t lost hope during my first summer on the streets of Muggle London: thrown alone into a pit, a giant crucible with a mixture of refuse and dross to be melted down and discarded, a place for refugees who had nowhere else to go.

I hadn’t lost hope for months afterwards, grasping the handle of my wand until it was worn, darkened with skin oils more now than it ever was during years of use. _Lumos! Lumos!_ And never a spark of light.

I kept looking for people who knew more than me, had more than me, who were able to do something. I’ve looked for someone who could help, knowing that hundreds were seeking the same, hoping that somehow my quest would turn out to be more successful than theirs.

Hope is truly the last thing people lose. Take it away and what remains? 

I hadn’t lost hope at Tottenham Court Road, when I first saw Albus, ranting and delirious, at the Underground station on the Central Line platform. I saw him dressed in filthy rags against the pristine white tiles and bright mosaic and my hope still remained.

People foolishly hold onto hope like they hold onto the feeling of a lost limb. Fingers still itch although there is nothing there. It took me another three months to realise that the itch was only an illusion. 

I knew by then that Albus couldn’t help me; for the first time in his life, in my life, he was powerless to do so. The bulwark, the tower to hide in, the shield and the shelter that was always there for me was no more. What took me longer to understand was that I couldn’t help Albus either. 

He is perhaps better off than some of us. It’s easy to disappear as a vagrant, easy to avoid the interrogations and the procedures, the watchful eyes of the officials. Who would notice that the homeless man who’d sat in the corner for years didn’t seem to be aging as fast as he should? Who would notice him at all? Albus has someone to take care of him now, someone who understands his delusions. I am powerless to help him any more than what already has been done.

When I lost hope, it wasn’t a revelation or a sign from above. There was no lightning bolt, no thunder, no sudden rain. I wasn’t even in the Underground standing next to Albus when it happened. It was afterwards.

I simply started to walk. I followed Tottenham Court Road until it ran out, and I just kept going, walking for the sake of watching the road scrolling in front of me, through concrete deserts, past rail yards and towers where Muggles lived as crowded as house-martens. Then my surroundings changed, from genteel old terraces to a high street lined with a colourful profusion of odd little stores. Some of them offered clothing that diverged enough from Muggle blandness to remind me with a pang of long-vanished Diagon Alley. Some even pretended to offer divinatory services; I scowled at the malformed symbols in the storefronts. Muggles! They’re like children, aspiring to powers they could never possess. Powers I will never possess again.

At that moment my aimless gaze paused at a tavern that filled the point of the wedge where the high street and Camden Road crossed. I settled into a seat at the bar and spent the rest of the night there, letting the last bit of hope I had left dissolve itself in a drunken stupor.

Muggles were as good as any wizard at producing means to escape from reality, and in the end any Muggle brew tasted just the same as potent elixirs from hand-blown flasks charmed against light and heat and breakage. 

What remains after all hope is lost? An empty life? Perhaps reality stripped of illusions. Perhaps the truth.

Now, as I walk past that same tavern beside the Underworld nightclub, closed and silent at this early morning hour, I stop and stare. The name of the tavern jumps out at me, in plain large letters over the dark windows. That name answers the question I’ve never even formulated fully, an answer that lies in plain sight.

‘The World’s End’. 

When everything comes to that, when the rest of the body is numb enough, it’s easy to ignore that illusory itch from the phantom limb of hope, realise once and for all that there is nothing in its place but the plastic and steel prosthesis of reality, and admit that you are crippled.

What did I do in the end? Nothing. Anything. What I always do best, survive.

I will go home and persuade Potter to leave because that is the only chance for me to numb that useless itch of hope. I refuse to catch the disease of optimism and senseless confidence from him. I will not be trapped in one of his dream worlds from which there is no escape.

I walk past the crowds starting to gather on the sidewalks now as it approaches mid-morning and the sun warms up the air. I turn the familiar corner, walk by the grey patches of dirt and enter the doorway. Climb up the stairs chequered by the sunlight streaming through the windows and unlock the door to my flat.

“Come in, Potter,” I toss behind my shoulder and step inside.

There is no response.

Slowly I turn around. 

Everything is silent. On the empty stairway, only dust motes glow in the air disturbed by my passing through the sunlit space. 

  
*

The day elapses without disruptions, without irritating noise. It hasn’t been this quiet in my flat for a while. Not since Potter made an appearance two mornings ago.

There is no spectre lingering just behind the corner, no ghost materialising next to the window or the book shelf, no rattling in the bathroom or the kitchen, no transparent head poking through my walls when I least expect it. At last.

I glance behind my shoulder just to be sure.

He must’ve finally done what I tried to persuade him to do all along. Infuriating whelp. It’s just like him to take off without any warning whatsoever, leaving behind the slightest, nagging shadow of doubt in my mind. What if it’s all just part of some silly joke, and any minute now he’ll stick his head through the curtains, laughing? “Tricked you! I knew you’d look for me!”

If the irresponsible twit had been haunting anyone else, they’d probably be idiotic enough to worry about him. They’d think that something happened on the way or that he got lost on the streets. It’s typical of the brat not to consider that.

What if he did get lost? 

London is difficult to navigate and, judging by his behaviour this morning, he’d never seen those streets before. Perhaps I walked back from the station too fast and confused him by turning a corner too swiftly. Is he sitting in some dark alleyway, or a busy walkway, almost merged with the wall, trying to avoid the passers-by stepping right through him, his form turning more ethereal and faded by the minute? Did he retrace his steps and find his way back to Dumbledore? Would he even want to?

Nonsense. Ghosts cannot get lost. If they could, hauntings would be so much easier to stop. 

It’s not like him to disappear without making some sort of dramatic exit. I look around the room again; check the hallway and the kitchen. After a thorough inspection of my flat, I concentrate and try to detect any tell-tale sign of the nagging itch at the back of my head, that sense of being watched by invisible eyes.

Is he still here? He must be. It’s hard to tell for sure. 

Damnation. How hard can it be to determine if I’m still haunted or not? The irritating pest might not be responding; he’d done it before. Maybe he’s just tired from the trip.

Berating myself in advance for this unwise behaviour, I look around the room and call out: “Potter.”

There is no answer. The newspapers in the corner do not stir. The bottles in the hallway do not rattle.

This is foolish, looking for a ghost. A ghost who isn’t supposed to be here in the first place. How many times did I ask him to leave me in peace? I just didn’t expect this to be so sudden: no sign, no indication. One moment he is doing his usual annoying routine of following my every step and the next there is nothing. I just want to be sure that he’s truly gone.

I recall the trip back. Camden. The Underworld. The World’s End. The streets just starting to fill with the usual morning crowds. When exactly did the pest stop following me?

Or did he follow me at all?

“Potter,” I call out. I glance into the hallway and repeat it once more, louder this time. Three times in a row. If he’s here but weakened by the trip, here is his last chance to show himself.

When did I see him last? What did he say to me? 

It must’ve been during the way back, or was it the Underground? 

It was the station. Potter threw a fit, I snapped at him. The usual. It’s not like we ever break that particular routine. 

Then I said I’ll be going back to the flat. He agreed with me, I remember something. He responded at some point. He did. “Yes, home,” he echoed in the end.

Of course, why didn’t I see it before? Home. He’d never refer to my flat this way. This place isn’t home to him; it’s further from home than anything. Why did he say it then? Could he have meant Hogwarts instead? 

This is madness.

Why would he disappear to go back to Hogwarts right there on the station? Without telling me first.

Deep in the back of my mind I know the answer to that. But it’s better to leave it hidden where it is. It’s much easier that way, to continue pretending. Nothing is wrong. Potter left. That’s final.

I will not think of it.

I’ll go through the day without fretting any more about the ghost’s fate; this much I’m capable of doing. 

I prepare my supper and eat it in the kitchen without accusing, envious glances in my direction. In the bathroom, I fill the tub with water hot enough to steam up the mirror so that I cannot even see where the razor goes as I finish shaving. With a curtain of wet hair sticking to the back of my neck and my limbs at odd angles to fit as much of my body underwater as possible, I soak in the water for hours or so it seems. I even leave the door open to let in a little extra air and light. Finally I can do that without the fear of my every move being watched even behind closed doors. It’s a relief to be alone again, not to be under constant surveillance from the minute I wake up to the minute I fall asleep, and even in my dreams.

Everything is just as it should be.

Is it now? “_Oi, ne lgi, vnychek_,” my mind’s voice interferes in Baba Olga’s all-knowing tones. True, I really shouldn’t lie. Lying to others is a necessity; lying to myself is a pointless act, a mental and moral weakness. The least I can do is admit the truth.

The brat had pinned all of his hopes on this trip. Why shouldn’t he? Finally leaving greasy, sour Snape who didn’t give a damn and meeting someone, anyone who might listen to whatever wild schemes he had thought up. Instead I took him to see the mad man, the lunatic who used to be his guardian, his teacher, who was the embodiment of magic to all of us.

I, of all people, should have known better. Had I already forgotten my own shock at discovering Albus in such a state? I forced Potter to retrace my steps and made him suffer through my despair. 

I might try to lie to myself, but deep inside the truth whispers in the back of my mind. The only possible reason why he left so suddenly: he lost hope, just as I lost hope one day years ago in The World’s End.

I have sunk to a new low. No one deserves such an ordeal. Even him.

Especially him?

No! I owe him nothing. I didn’t drive him away. The whelp only got what he deserved. He had to leave, and the sooner the better; we both knew it. I won’t miss him. 

No. I most certainly will not miss him.

I walk into the unlit bedroom with my hair still dripping against my back, water soaking into the thin material of my nightshirt. With hands still wrinkled and tingling from the hot water I fumble in the deepening shadows for the box of matches I left on the bookshelf yesterday.

It’s night already. The days in April are still too short.

Matches in hand, I seek out a candle left on the edge of the table. I really have no need for one. The absence of light doesn’t bother my eyes as much as light itself often does, but without at least one light source the room turns gloomy: dark and silent, like a tomb.

Like a cupboard.

“Couldn’t you leave a candle burning?” My memory, ever so accommodating, supplies the next line. Damnation. Even when he’s gone, the brat is playing mind games with me.

Curse him.

When the first candle is lit, in the faint, flickering light of it, I reach under the bed and search by feel rather than by sight until my fingers grasp the desired object on the dusty floorboards. The second candle. The third candle is sitting next to the bookend on the shelf; the fourth is balanced on the arm of the chair. I find at least half a dozen and when I am done, I return to the table, gathering all the candles to my chest.

I do not question my actions when I light them one by one, one from the other. Light against the darkness. Candles for the dead.

Soon the shadows are driven back to the furthest corners, and the collection of tiny flames fills the room with a gentle, flickering glow.

Perhaps it’s my way to offer apology. If that’s true, then it’s good that Potter isn’t here, lurking invisible. It’s good that he can’t witness this madness.

It bothers me that deep inside I don’t want this apology to go unnoticed. It bothers me that I catch myself constantly listening for something in the silence of the room. It bothers me that his absence alone has managed to disturb me more than his infuriating company.

I leave the candles lit, even after I retire to sleep.

  
_Oi, ne lgi, vnychek (Rus.)_: Oi, don’t lie, grandson.

  
*

I dream of the tunnel again, of the magic coursing through my body: dynamic, vital, perfectly in tune with my heartbeat.

It drums in my ears and pulses in angry red flashes behind my closed eyelids. No wand. No wand.

The darkness of the enclosed space is deceptive. The ceiling might as well be twenty feet tall and just as wide if I don’t try to spread my arms apart to feel my way through the passage. If I take no notice of the dry roots tangling in my hair scattering moist bits of soil over my head and shoulders when I move. If ignore the countless memories of this place all telling me the same thing. The ceiling hangs low enough in places forcing me to bend down in order to avoid all the roots. The walls are narrow enough to scrape my forearms and knuckles. By the time I’m running hurriedly through the tunnel, they’ll be scratched raw. Memory also tells me that no matter which way I turn, right or left, the end will be just the same.

There’ll be no phantom strangers wandering into my nightmares tonight; there’ll be no offered hand to pull me out. It’s surprising how fast one gets addicted to an easy escape. I may as well start moving. I’ll have to see this through to the end, without a shortcut, the hard way.

Far away and somewhere ahead, a hushed, whining sound resonates, muffled by the closed door.

And so it begins.

It doesn’t take long for me to make the required decision. 

Last time I stayed immobile. I tried to escape the time before that. Neither choice had been successful. None of them ever were.

I’ll go toward the noise this time. 

It seems pointless, suicidal. What will I do when I reach my destination? Spread my arms wide, leave my chest bare, tilt my head: here I am, kill me please? Absurd.

It sounds like something Potter would do.

Come to think of it, that’s exactly what he did. The greatest warfare scheme ever devised by Albus Dumbledore: nothing but a suicide mission with a twist. Albus always did prefer to keep things simple.

I stumble through the dark, forward. When Dumbledore’s doing the planning, what can go wrong? A few dry chuckles graze my throat at the thought. Is the laughter I hear really mine? I sound like a madman, or Black, or both. Or is it this place starting to twist my senses as well?

It’s been too long and I haven’t heard another sound besides my own. Am I going the right way? Too many times the tunnel deceived me into choosing the wrong direction just to prolong the hunt, to send me running through it with the monster at my back for its own twisted pleasure. At times I think the tunnel is a living, breathing creature, and I wonder what kind of cruel game it’s playing with me. Where is it leading me? What will it do to me next?

I turn the corner and run into something flat and hard.

Dead end.

This is not supposed to be here. My hands roam across a flat surface in the dark. What is it? Where did it come from? Who put it here?

It’s a door. A small, narrow door. A door with a knob and a lock from what my fingers can determine. I try to open it, but it doesn’t budge.

Could this perhaps be the end to my nightmare? The monster is gone, trapped behind this doorway for good. For a blissful second, I dare to hope.

But no, it must be a trick. Another twist in the nightmare? The door is much too small for such a large fiend to ever fit through. Where is it then? And what is behind it? It doesn’t seem like a regular entrance: the door’s lintel is not only low but sloping oddly, like a storeroom or a closet. 

I hear someone breathing.

Quietly it starts: a broken, muffled series of sobs, the sounds of a throat constricting against inhaled air; so hushed it’s barely noticeable. But it’s there, behind this door.

I lean toward it, putting my ear against the hard wood.

The noises grow louder. It sounds like a child crying and trying not to at the same time.

“Who are you?” I call out. Abruptly, the noises stop.

What kind of trickery is this?

Slowly, I slide down onto the cold, damp stones until only my back is leaning against the smooth, unyielding surface.

“Why are you here?” I call again.

I hear a gasp, then silence. Is it frightened? Of me?

I rest my forehead against the door. The painted surface is slightly cool against my skin.

“I’m not going to harm you.”

Seconds pass, measured by my heartbeat and no other sound.

Finally, a soft, unsure voice, a child’s voice, answers back: “I live here. Who’re you?”

I’m shocked at what I’m hearing, but also shocked that I haven’t made such a simple connection before, for who else would have free access to my dreams this way? No matter how absurd, how bizarre the notion is, nonetheless, it only seems right. “Potter?”

I hear yet another gasp in the series of uneven, rushed breaths. “How’d you know my name?”

It’s him! Of course it’s him. Who else would be capable of putting a blasted mystery door in the middle of my nightmare? Relief washes over me, so strong that I can actually chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Only this impossible brat is crazy enough to think of such a thing. “Potter, why are you hiding in the closet?”

“It’s a cupboard,” the voice insists, with the stubborn certainty of the very young.

Ah, that makes all the difference, of course. “Why are you in a _cupboard_, Potter?”

“I told you, I live here.”

What is he playing at? “You live _here_? Since when?” And will this living condition remain permanent from now on?

“Since they all went away and left me alone,” the voice confesses softly. “Are you going away too?”

Am I? “No, I’m not.” It’s a dead end. There is nowhere else to go.

To my horror, I make out a disturbing sound coming from the other end of the tunnel. Claws scratching against wood, the crashing of a heavy body breaking free. I know too well what follows.

My nightmare is not over. 

Anxiously, my fingers search the smooth surface of Potter’s door for a hidden latch of some kind. I twist the knob and pull, then push against it. Useless. It’s Potter’s domain and he seems to be the only one who can let me inside.

“Potter, this is important. You need to open this door.”

“I can’t,” he argues. “They locked it.”

“Yes you can.” I think of Potter altering my Potions classroom walls into the dungeon stairway on a mere whim, and almost smell the scent of cinnamon on my hands turning into the scent of coffee beans. “You can do anything you want.”

“Really?” Potter seems very surprised at the idea.

“Yes.” 

The distant noise of clawing stops, replaced by the sound of a large creature running through the narrow space. It’s heading toward me. 

I don’t have much time.

“The Dursleys said . . . I’m just a . . . I’m no good,” the voice states dejectedly. 

The Dursleys. They must be the Muggle family he stayed with. If Potter is telling the truth, they aren’t at all what I expected them to be. And it’s certainly not what I ever expected to hear from the lips of the Boy Wonder, the Almost Saviour of the Wizarding World. 

This can’t be the same child who helped a murderer escape from school grounds, who dared to raise his wand to a teacher, who broke a dozen school rules without blinking an eye. What happened to him? The Dursleys ‘said’ and suddenly he’s reduced to _this_? “It doesn’t matter what they say; you’re a wizard, boy.”

“A what?” He sounds quite shocked.

“A wizard.” Doesn’t he know what wizards are? I don’t have time for a lecture.

“Y’mean I’m magic?” the voice asks excitedly. “Like in fairytales?”

“Yes,” I assure him and wince at the sound of running feet, so much closer now than a second ago. “You make things happen.”

He needs to do so soon. The beast is almost at the corner. I press against the wood in a futile attempt to slide through it like Potter so easily does. “Open the door. Now.”

“I can’t,” he cries out. “It’s not moving.”

“Concentrate.”

“I’m trying.”

Damnation! “It’s not good enough. Do it. Picture it open.”

“I can’t!”

Cold air rushes against my back. The beast turns the corner and I’m out of time.

“Open it NOW!” I close my eyes against the sound of movement, right at my back. It’s over. It must be. Let it be over. 

Suddenly, all is silence. 

Only silence. No tunnel. No beast. And in that silence there is a slow, maddening squeak and a click of a lock turning.

I grasp the knob and pull. The door swings back easily.

In the dark, tiny space behind the door sits a child. Chameleon’s eye glasses and ill-fitting clothes. He can’t be older than seven. Pale and skinny, he doesn’t seem strong enough to survive to turn seventeen.

“I did it! I really did,” the boy exclaims.

I look behind me; the tunnel is gone. I’m inside a house. The narrow hallway is lit only by the streetlights’ glow from the outside streaming through the window shade. A room to the left of me is completely dark; so is the stairway leading up and over the cupboard space. 

Everything is still. Even the framed photographs on the wall aren’t moving at all. 

So this is where Potter, or, at least, this child, lives.

I look back inside the narrow space. He is still huddled in a corner with a blanket and a flashlight.

“Are you going to stay there all night?” I berate the scruffy urchin. “One might think you were raised under the stairs the way you keep hiding in there.”

The boy nods, embarrassed, and pulls further back into the shadows.

Oh. He was? 

I live here. Wasn’t that the first thing he said to me? 

All these years I was convinced that Potter came from a doting family of Muggles who supported his every whim. Poor little orphan, but look, he can spell his hair to grow back in a day, such a talented boy, our precious wonder. James Potter’s behaviour indicated a spoiled childhood, why would Potter Jr. be any different from him? I’ve made a mistake in my assumptions. A drastic mistake.

“Well, come on,” I extend my arm toward him, as cautious as if he’s a caged animal more likely to sink his teeth into my palm than take my hand.

Tentatively, a small hand wraps around my fingers, just as tense and nervous as mine.

It’s a start. He pulls himself up, takes a step. Then another.

When Potter comes out, something about the boy has changed. The same baggy clothes hang on his skinny form, not fitting any better than before. The same ridiculous glasses shine under the sparse lighting: clumsy as two vial bases, connected by a nose piece broken and put together too many times to fit properly. But he seems taller and his grip feels stronger against my hand.

He looks more now like a stubborn first-year, like he did when he first came to Hogwarts, determined not to pay attention when it was most needed. The son of his father; from the first time I saw him I had no doubt of that.

I pull my hand back in haste.

"I can't believe you spent your entire childhood here,” I say the first thing on my mind, mostly to disguise the sudden motion. It won’t do me any good to reveal my anxiety through my actions.

"Not _all_ of it," he answers. “I’ll show you.”

He seizes my hand and the environment around me shifts before I have time to agree. It feels like I am dragged up the stairs and through the upstairs hallway in matter of seconds, as if his hand is a portkey.

Whoosh, and we’re inside a small room with a barred window and sparse furniture. An old bed sits in the corner. An empty owl cage rests upon a large trunk propped against the wall.

The door is closed and nailed shut, making me doubt that we ever entered this space through it. Is it to keep someone out or to keep someone in? 

Perhaps both.

“This is where I spent the rest,” Potter explains. I do not turn around for the fear of seeing something – accusations, his unease, or an echo of my own – behind those large glasses.

This room feels familiar, though I’ve never seen it before. I can almost smell the pungent, burnt scent that results from an insect flying too close to an open flame, can almost hear my father’s voice arguing with my mother in the room below. I wonder what Potter did here on the long summer evenings to keep boredom at bay? Did he ever reach the point of casting the Killing Curse on flies simply because they were there? Because they would’ve burnt themselves on a candle sooner or later and Avada was a much cleaner way to die.

“I should’ve never survived,” Potter says, “or should’ve stayed in the cupboard. Would’ve been better for the Dursleys and everyone else. That way I wouldn’t have ruined so many lives.”

I chance a look at him. Potter is slumped in the corner on the bare floorboards, against the equally bare wall. An eleven-year-old with the weight of the world piled up on his shoulders.

“No matter what I do now, I’ll never be able to fix it all.”

He reminds me of Albus, this ghost, the way he traps himself inside his own dreamscapes; caught in pursuit of some grandiose scheme for the good of the universe while the ordinary, mundane parts of existence slip by him unnoticed. 

Albus is far past saving, but perhaps Potter still stands a chance, my mind suggests, unexpectedly.

None of it’s his doing; even I realise it, so why can’t he? None of it’s his fault. The world would bring ruin upon itself just fine without Potter’s assistance. “You aren’t responsible. You already gave it your all. No one could expect you to do so again.”

He considers my words, then shakes his head. “I don’t have to. But I will anyway.” He stands up, and continues to rise, growing inches in mere seconds. His features shift, his nose and his chin strengthen, the shadow on his cheekbones and jaw line intensifies. His fists clench in determination, large and bony against his short, stocky form. Only his eyes stay the same, blazing with years of stubborn will behind those ridiculous glasses. 

Having two images for comparison like this, it’s disturbing to notice how _un_like a child he is. Seen like this, it’s impossible to ignore that Potter is an adult. An adult with a few deceptively childish habits perhaps, but he isn’t a child at all. The Boy-Who-Lived grew up as all children do, long ago, and I didn’t even notice it happening right before my eyes.

He closes his eyes and concentrates on something with a thoughtful, sad expression on his face. The room with the barred window stretches far and wide to become the Great Hall at Hogwarts. A place lit only by the moon charmed to appear on the ceiling and a few candles floating above the aisles. 

The place is silent and sombre, decorated only by black curtains and black banners hanging along the walls.

Slowly I start walking toward the teachers’ seats, looking right and left along the house tables, picturing faces long gone now or changed beyond recognition. Potter follows me. He is doing something to time or space, I realise, because the short walk along the benches is taking me much longer than usual. Minutes pass. Or is it hours? I do not care; I simply walk, and remember.

No words are necessary. I look up to the empty seat at the centre of the high table and imagine Albus Dumbledore sitting there as he had done on countless occasions. Without checking behind me, I know that Potter is thinking the same thing.

It’s a memorial ceremony for the ones long gone and the ones still with us. Too many of them haven’t received one.

This is for Albus, for the great things he did and for the way he did them. This is for countless other faces blurred out of focus in the corners of my vision.

And in some way this is also for Potter. For the boy he never was and for the man he never had time to be.

In the silent hall, with Potter following close behind, I keep on walking. 

  
*

As I enter the kitchen the next day I can’t help wondering: when did it become a neutral territory for conversations with my ghost instead of simply a place to prepare a meal?

“Morning, Snape.”

Potter stands between the table and the counter wearing the same dark-grey coat that I’ve seen him appear in before, only now it’s buttoned up to the very top. There is something else different about him, aside from his age, which is more obvious to me now, making it much harder to think of him as a ‘boy’.

A pair of rimless, half-moon glasses rests on his nose. I’m surprised to note they’re like the ones Albus used to wear when he was still at Hogwarts. The pair that nowadays seems to have been replaced by marbles. Oddly enough, I understand the impulse behind this change. I’ve bought bags of lemon sherbets for months after I saw Albus, leaving them to grow sticky from the humidity and then congeal into yellow clumps in a dish on my kitchen table. I never ate them. Perhaps Potter will get more use out of his commemoration.

Behind the small, shiny semicircles of glass, Potter’s face seems thinner and that much older, with the sharp angles of his jaw and heavy eyebrows in plain view.

“I’m sorry about the dream,” he says.

“Don’t mention it,” I wave it away.

He slouches, his head and shoulders bowed, his form pale and glowing and awkwardly still in the morning light that streams into my kitchen window. “Thank you for making me open that door. No telling how long I would’ve stayed in there otherwise.”

I doubt that the he would’ve stayed there for long, with or without me. I suspect that deep inside he wanted to be heard, otherwise his cupboard door would’ve never appeared in the middle of my dream.

“Anyway.” He shuffles uncomfortably, like a stallion penned up in a stable he outgrew long ago. “Just wanted to let you know that before I left.”

Left? He’s leaving? Now? After all this time, it seems more like a joke when spoken out loud. 

The glasses do not hide Potter’s face as much as his old pair with its thick frames and round lenses. The ghost’s unsaturated eyes appear grey-blue behind them and they seem to have caught the twinkle that Albus always used to have, but I can also see that, even with that mysterious spark present in his stare, this is no joke.

Of course he’s leaving. That was the deal, wasn’t it? It’s just that, suddenly, questions crowd my mind: things that I haven’t had a chance to ask him, thoughts that never even crossed my mind before yesterday. Where would you go? Would you like to talk about Dumbledore? Did they really keep you in a cupboard all those years? 

“Well, I’m going now.” he murmurs and looks down at his feet. “Good bye, I guess.”

He remains still despite the promise. Then again, what did I expect? Ghosts do not ring the doorbell, say their greetings, and step politely through the opened door. It only makes sense that they would not leave that way either. What will he do? Disappear in a spark of light? Melt into thin air? Is he growing more transparent already? 

No, wait. I have too many questions. And there is no time to ask them. Where do I start? Which one do I ask first?

“Stay.” The word comes out of nowhere, and it shocks me to the core.

It shocks him as well; his disbelief is obvious. “Here? Are you sure?”

I said it; there is no sense in taking it back now. I shouldn’t repeat myself. “You can stay until you find a better solution.”

What am I doing? A sensible part of my mind screams out in shock, I’ll never get rid of the pest now. 

I must have grown used to his quirks, because the thought doesn’t irritate me nearly as much as it should.

What would he have done if he left, anyway? Was he planning to go back to Hogwarts, watch the castle grow even more abandoned and barren day by day? Would he witness the moths blindly fluttering into the open windows in summer and pass by the spiders spinning their sticky webs across the corridors without the need to brush them aside? Would he hold conversations with the portraits on the walls out of boredom? Would he shout his anger into the silence of the empty hallways; cry futile protests at the sight of his home fading slowly into ruins, until Hogwarts only survived in his dreams? 

It’s like the Zen koan. If a ghost speaks in a castle and there is no one there to hear him, does the sound exist at all? 

Ghosts are only as strong as our memories of them. If there is no one to remember him, there is nothing to keep him from fading away completely. He needs to be around someone who realises that he is still here. He deserves to be with someone who would _see_ him, who would listen and respond to what he says. 

He should be with me.

**Notes:**

[Tottenham Court Road underground station](http://www.thejoyofshards.co.uk/london/tcr/index.shtml) is where Snape finds Albus Dumbledore. The pictures of the wall mosaics included on that site are very beautiful.  
Snape passes [The Underworld nightclub](http://www.theunderworldcamden.co.uk/) on his way back. [The World's End](http://www.fauxhemian.dk/gallery/album07/DSC00668) is located right next to it.   
The Underworld and the World's End are in [Camden town](http://www.streetsensation.co.uk/camden/ca_intro.htm).


	3. A New Beginning

Why am I still here? 

Snape let me stay. And I’ve got nowhere else to go. It all comes down to that. Maybe here I can make myself useful and distract him from drinking himself to death. Yeah, and why not fix all the rest while I’m at it? Get the magic and Dumbledore back to normal, and Bob’s your uncle. Shouldn’t be a problem at all, right? 

Bollocks.

Am I better off at Hogwarts? At least it’ll be warm. In here, it’s bloody freezing all the time. The dreams helped, but Snape’s had no nightmares for a while, and I remember what happened when I looked in his pensieve uninvited. I have learned some ‘sense of propriety’, as Snape puts it. 

The chill I can cope with; it’s nothing new. But I’ve noticed other things. I’m worse at paying attention, or moving things, or speaking and being heard. A few times when I tried asking Snape something he didn’t answer at all. Was he in one of his moods or was it me? I can never be sure. It’s hard enough to stay visible, when all I want to do is curl up in the corner and stop talking altogether.

If this keeps up, I won’t have the energy to do anything at all. Potty Wee Potter, poor sod, can’t get the magic back, can’t even sign my own name. 

Am I only going to get weaker from now on? Is it because I haven’t got enough of a purpose to keep me here, now that Voldemort’s destroyed and the magic’s gone? Or is it because of Snape, always giving me the cold shoulder?

I don’t want to be this helpless! At Hogwarts, it took months to teach myself to hold the quill up and slide it through the air just right. But I didn’t let that stop me from using it to write. Then I came here, and had to try and try just to do the simple things all over again; but this time with my fingers chilled into fumbling, with stingy old Snape the only living thing that knew I was still around. And I did that too.

Move, you bastard!

How hard can it be to draw an “H”? I suppose this is close enough. I can’t control the pen any more tonight anyway. Funny, if I’ll ever decide to write a letter, it’ll probably take me years to finish it.

It’s morning again. The rest can wait till tomorrow. Wonder if there’ll ever be a time when I won’t notice or care any longer if it’s day or night?

I hope not.

  
*

I watch Potter bend over the chess board trying to stare down the line of faceless pieces through the slim semicircles of his new glasses. After a few seconds, his efforts produce the desired outcome. Little by little, the queen’s pawn slides forward from its black square and onto the white. By the time it reaches the centre of the square, Potter looks done in and lowers his eyes in defeat.

He isn’t going to stop there on his first move, is he? “Only one square?” I allow the chess-inspired politeness to slip into my tone.

“Yes.” Is it possible to set the wooden piece afire with a single syllable? If not, Potter’s glare enhanced by Albus’ spectacles might do so by itself.

Fine by me. “Every move is final.” 

“I know.” He nods, rests his head on his folded hands, and props his elbows on the empty air over my kitchen table. He watches the chess board like a hawk, as if he’s expecting my pieces to ambush his the moment he stops looking. 

All in good time. I frown at the board balanced on the corner of the rickety table. It’s primitive and cheaply made like everything in my flat. Plain numbers and letters denote the cells instead of the usual Arithmancy symbols and runes. Still, it doesn’t change the game a bit. Chess is satisfying this way: the rules remain the same no matter where it’s played or with whom. I slide the king’s pawn two squares forward into the battlefield. Let the game begin.

“Your turn,” I remind him when after another staring contest with the board Potter’s gaze wanders past my half-empty bottle on the table and comes to rest on my teacup. He gives the steam drifting from my tea the longing look of a drunk denied his daily dose of Firewhiskey and turns back to his two rows of chess pieces.

“Knight to F-3,” he finally announces.

“I’m afraid I didn’t hear you.”

Another scorching look follows. “Knight. To F-3.” 

I make a show of inspecting the board; the knight in question remains on its initial square. “I’ll pretend that you have no other legal moves left and allow you to skip a turn.”

“Will you stop pissing about and move the bloody knight?” he snaps, clearly at the end of his rope but managing to stop himself from lunging across the table.

I let him have the benefit of the doubt for a few seconds. He rattles on: “I can get the pieces to slide, but there’s no way I’d manage to make the kni . . .” 

“No.” That stops him. He blinks mid-sentence and never finishes it.

“Why not?” he gapes at me, outraged.

The answer is obvious, why does he even ask? “It’s not my piece to move.”

“Fine!” he barks. For a moment he looks tempted to add a few stronger words, but instead he subsides, fixing a weary stare on the stationary knight.

He’s been this way for awhile, and not only in his attempts to move objects. More and more often I’ve been noticing him lurking in the corners, staring off into space with a blank expression, as if he’s lost track of time. Or reality. “For someone who managed to scatter a pile of newspapers all over the room a couple of weeks ago you seem to be having entirely too much trouble.”

Briefly, Potter looks like he’s about to confess a guilty secret, but instead he says “You were nicer when you were trying to get rid of me.”

Did he, by any chance, expect the opposite? “Nothing’s changed.” 

“Liar.”

“Enough,” I pick up the black bishop and slide it to the centre of the board. “_Cave regi_, Potter.”

That gets a reaction out of him. “Git!” he spits out angrily. “If you’d moved my knight like I asked you to, I’d be able to protect the king.”

“You still have four other choices.” It’s not as if my decision left him entirely helpless.

“I wanted the knight!” he whines.

“If you won’t make an attempt to move the pieces yourself, you won’t get to move at all,” I growl at him. If a few quick wins on my part are what it takes to force him into such an attempt, so be it.

His flash of startlement fades almost at once into tired sulkiness. “What’s the use? I can try all day and all night, for what it’s worth. It won’t do any good.”

It won’t do him any good to stop trying altogether. Why can’t he see that? “Make your move or forfeit.”

“Fine.” He concentrates and leans over the board. “Bloody.” One of the pawns shakes slightly – “Stubborn. Git!” – and slides forward a square to shield the king. “Happy now?”

It’s acceptable. As I move my bishop back to A-5, I too retreat into old patterns. I resume the drawl I used in long-gone classrooms, in an effort to drive home the lesson my once and future student has just learned. “Was that so difficult, _Mis-ter_ Potter?” I motion at the board in invitation. “Move again.”

Potter tilts his head forward and narrows his eyes in a poor imitation of my scowl. “You haven’t changed a bit since school, have you? Same old controlling bastard.” He makes a face, but his frown doesn’t hold for long, quickly replaced by indifference. 

This growing apathetic streak in him is starting to bother me. I observe him closely, looking for any other alarming signs I might have previously missed. If only I knew what I am dealing with, what to look for. He resumes his hollow-eyed stare into nothingness, while his pieces remain frozen in place. “You play like you teach, and they should’ve never let you teach the way you did,” he mutters in a surly undertone. 

“Spare me.” I’ve heard it all before. There’s nothing new that he can possibly tell me. “I don’t need a ghost to question my teaching methods.”

Good, at least this has some effect on him. His brow furrows as his head snaps up and he fires a glare at me, alert once more. “Someone has to! How did your ‘methods’ justify giving your precious Slytherins all the attention and treating us like dirt?” 

Always quick to make judgements, isn’t he? “Perhaps if you made an effort to learn...”

“Learn?” he interrupts. “Perhaps if you made an effort to teach! Hermione studied for every lesson. And what did Ron or Neville ever do to you?”

Show up unprepared; endanger others by their own incompetence. There were multitudes of reasons. “Potter, I did my best to keep all of you from wasting my ingredients and murdering your classmates.”

“How?” His voice grows louder, defiant and mocking. “By swooping around the dungeons and docking points left and right?” 

Impertinent fool! “I followed exactly the same policy others used when _assigning_ house points, Potter.”

"Bollocks,” he says, quiet but firm. “You should’ve seen your face back in fifth year when you tried to take points from Gryffindor again and there weren’t any left to take. You had no clue what to do next.” 

“I was merely stunned at your House’s incompetence.” There were plenty of other ways to teach those young nitwits a lesson. I was never at loss for ideas.

“No. You enjoyed it!” he declares with such confidence that it’s obvious he believes every word to be true. “You enjoyed taking points and you enjoyed seeing Slytherin win. Professor McGonagall was tired of hearing you boast every single time they got ahead.”

“It was mutual,” I assure him. The old witch waged the yearly battle for the House Cup as if the honours of being Albus’ favourite pet were at stake. “McGonagall wasn’t exactly innocent herself.” No, can’t let that greasy Snape get the job. He doesn’t purr on demand. What shall I ever do if I don’t get my ears scratched daily? 

He just shakes his head at that and brushes it aside, not considering my words, as usual. “That’s no excuse. You were ten times worse than her! It’s a wonder we ever had any points.”

“Potter, that’s enough.”

“You were worse than a child!”

Child! Child? Potter of all people has the nerve to . . . “Do you know what your problem is, Potter? You don’t know when you’ve gone too far.”

“And you don’t know when to LISTEN!” He stands up to his full height and shouts; furious eyes aglow and hair bristling. 

Perhaps now is the time? No. Not yet. I should let him fume for another minute.

“Of course it’s my fault,” I lower my voice to a seething whisper, just to make it more difficult for him to hear what I have to say. “For not listening, and then for not going along with your opinion, no matter how idiotic it is.” Involuntarily he leans down, into the sound. “What will you do if I won’t comply at once? Throw _Expelliarmus_ at me again?” Closer. Good. “Disarm the teacher so the monster and the escaped convict can drag him through that blasted tunnel like a sack of potatoes and then waltz away scot-free?” I spit the last words in his face. 

He doesn’t move an inch, just stands right there and glares down at me, stubborn as ever. “Don’t even start. That was self-defence. You’re the one who taught us the bloody spell!”

“Which naturally gave you the right to act like a spoiled brat with complete disregard for the rules. Just like your father.”

“It’s better than being a sour, heartless bastard who never took the time in all the seven years to figure out that I am NOT my father and I HATE you for it!” He sneers spitefully at me; it’s James Potter all over again, with the same rebellious hair, and the same mouth, taunting and deliberately cruel.

“That’s nothing new,” I cry, the image of my school tormentors still fresh in my mind, “You ingrate, you were imagining my face on every scarab beetle you were crushing, while I was trying to teach you how _not_ to blow yourself and the whole damned Potions class sky-high!”

Silence hangs in the air, gathering as heavy as clouds before a hailstorm. A train whistle rips through it followed by the usual racket and roar of the tracks. As my ears ring with the noise of the passing train, I belatedly realise I’ve revealed too much.

He looks stunned at first. “You read my mind in Potions.” It’s not a question. 

“I didn’t need Legilimency to see that you hated me.” I sneer back at him.

“Bollocks! You did! Every single class, I bet. How dare you? No wonder you acted like you owned the place and everything in it.”

“Owned?” That was never a question. “It was _my_ classroom.”

“And they were MY thoughts!” he shouts. If he was any closer, our noses would meet, but it’s not the sound or the proximity that takes me aback, it’s his eyes behind Albus’ glasses, colourless: icy-pale and unforgiving, without a trace of green in them. It’s the way Albus looked at his enemies: at the Dark Lord, a pupil who defied his teachings; at Crouch Jr. who deceived him by impersonating Mad-Eye; at me, convincing me I’d be dead in seconds but only offering me the Potions position instead.

Now he’s ready. “Your move, Potter,” I prompt him as soon as the silence stops ringing in my ears.

“KNIGHT TO F-3!” he yells in my face. Desperate. Furious. More alive than I’ve seen him in days. His fist strikes the board and remains there. The chess figures start shaking, harder and harder, and suddenly explode off the board. They rebound from the walls with a clatter, roll across the floorboards, hit my chest and jaw hard enough to bruise. A white pawn slams against my cup, splashing tea far and wide. A black bishop falls, head down, into the neck of my whiskey bottle like a stopper.

On the outside, I retain my composed expression while waiting for the worst of his fury to pass. Inwardly I let out a sigh of relief. Potter still has it in him; there is no doubt about that. Perhaps all he needs is a slight push to return to his usual, obnoxiously cheerful self. If there is one thing I know how to do well it’s pushing his buttons.

I allow my face to relax and let the corners of my mouth curl upward. “Very good. I knew moving a mere chess piece wasn’t beyond you.”

He stares and stares at me, utterly at a loss for words; with all the hatred of seven years thrown into that one glare, and something – perhaps understanding – following far behind the rage. His form grows thinner and melts away long before that understanding ever has a chance to reveal itself.

His usual reckless ways of dealing with the world have caused yet another disaster, and now he’s gone. Once again I am left alone to pick up the pieces.

As I gather the pawns, three rooks and a knight from the floor, I think that there is clearly no point in reconstructing or continuing our game. I reach for the whiskey bottle instead.

The black bishop stoppers the bottle, stuck in the neck. I look at it for a while, wondering if I should take it out, wondering how long it will take Potter to calm down; wondering if I have gone completely mad, with my ghostly visions. After all, even Albus didn’t notice him. No one does but me. Is it because he is nothing but a delusion, a figment of my imagination which is driving me more insane with every passing day?

I leave the bottle untouched among the chess pieces on my kitchen table. There is no use in asking the question if I don’t want it answered.

_Cave regi (Lat.)_ – check.

  
*

It is past noon when I discover Potter, visible once more, sitting on his usual perch: the stack of my newspapers next to the window. He appears to have established that the real world lies beneath the gap in my curtains and everything else simply doesn’t exist.

Very well. If he desires the outside world, I won’t stand in his way. 

I’ll even take him there.

My coat is hanging next to the doorway, between my umbrella and my winter hat. All three have various spots and creases traced with worn-out grey on black cloth that has seen better decades. I put my coat on and smooth out its wrinkles as much as I can in the darkness of my hallway, wishing it were possible to similarly smooth out the rest of my life with a few brushes of my hand. I check the keys and banknotes in my left pocket, and announce just loudly enough to be heard through the bedroom door: “Time to go, Potter. It’s in your best interest to follow.”

He emerges in silence from the solid wall after I step through the doorway and shut the door to my flat. It must be his fear of my absence or his curiosity about my departure that forces him to comply, because he passes through the layers of brick and the chipped paint and faint graffiti as soon as the lock clicks into place. Either way, his presence works to my advantage.

With the silent, moody ghost at my heels, I descend the stairway and wince once the sunlight hits my face and the sounds – much louder than those in my flat – assault my eardrums. I turn the corner into the narrow alleyway and start walking in the general direction of Camden. If my chosen route alarms Potter, he doesn’t show it.

It doesn’t take long to cover the distance through the streets drenched in the roar of automobiles. Some Muggles yell through that racket at each other and into the pervasive metal boxes pressed to their ears. Others shield from the noise by attaching themselves to yet more metal boxes blasting obnoxious tunes directly into their heads, loudly enough for me to hear the faint buzz from a few steps away. After the quiet of my flat, and Potter’s silence, it’s even more disturbing to find myself surrounded by the chatter of a dozen conversations at once. Yet I keep going at a brisk pace toward my retreat from the everyday pandemonium of London streets, finding my way among the crowds, the noise, and the usual stink of exhaust fumes. 

In order to give the ghost a sufficient incentive to follow out of spite, I try to lose myself in the crowd of Camden Lock Market and refuse to check for his presence behind me. Will it work? I glance back discreetly at Mornington Crescent to catch the glimpse of Potter’s wispy fringe over icy, colourless eyes. They are brilliantly sharp and empty in the light, like the windows of countless Muggle towers shining under the bright afternoon sun. Wrapped in a layer of mirrors, they reveal nothing to the world but its own reflection.

I leave Tottenham Court Road with all its memories to the right of me and pass by Tavistock Square where the trees sprout new leaves overhead and the fresh scent of grass fills the still cold air. It’s better here. The din of passing vehicles subsides to a bearable level; the quiet rustle of wind in the tree tops is a welcome change. It is only when I hear a twig snap underfoot that I realise I have left my wand behind. I block my twinge of apprehension at its absence. I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have it with me – in the waking world, at least. Stubbornly I go on, walking not running, not letting my weakness show, definitely not thinking about tunnels or nightmares or death tracking me like a wolf.

The noisy street passes yet another park, the Muggle way of compensating for their destruction of nature by recreating it in arranged and cultivated lumps among their concrete deserts. No matter what their reasons were, I welcome the sight. It’s a change from the usual reek of Muggle roads, a relief from choking on the stink of metal and exhaust toxins. The air I inhale has a hint of springtime, with its scent of the deep blue sky and thawing soil pierced by green blades of grass. I tell myself not to linger there any more than necessary and wonder if Potter is able to smell anything anymore.

At Southampton Row the crisp freshness of the spring air is again rendered non-existent by the smells of baked foods and burned fuel. The traffic noises mixed in with the buzz of conversations invade my ears and prompt the pulsing ache at the nape of my neck to spread. I cross Kings Way and turn left onto a much quieter footpath laid with old brick. I walk into the square surrounded by dark Georgian houses, arriving in the echoing footsteps of countless wizards or Muggles, who came to this place in the past. They used to duel here for pride, honour, or lost love, often unaware that they would lose their even more precious lives instead.

Lincoln’s Inn Fields witnessed many such wins or losses, but right now they’re simply an oasis of quiet and green and a place to rest.

I pass through the gates and keep walking until the bare branches of trees with their occasional spray of leaves obscure the tall buildings from my eyes, until there is nothing but the dome of blue sky, the sharp sunlight, the air, sweet and clear as birch sap, and the silence. The whole world seems to be contained in an enormous marble of methylene blue held up on Dumbledore’s palm to the glare of artificial lamps.

I sit down to catch my breath on one of the benches along the path, facing away from the cold wind. I raise the collar over my neck and slip my frozen hands into my coat pockets, against the smooth and equally cold lining. Despite the sunlight, my ears and nose are numb from the chill. I look down, let the curtain of my hair fall over the sides of my face, slowly exhale the air through my mouth, and revel in a makeshift bubble of warmth. It dissipates all too soon, leaving me to deal with the weather and the ghost who followed me here.

Potter settles on the other side of the bench. He huddles on top of the backrest like a sparrow on a wire and rests his feet on the very edge of the seat. With his shoulders curved and tense, his arms crossed over his chest, and his fingers digging into his forearms, his entire posture oozes dislike and mistrust. If the bench were twenty feet wide, he’d still be trying to fit into few inches of space in the corner opposite of mine, torn between staying close by necessity and getting as far away as possible.

It’s nothing new. All my life I’ve been surrounded by people who loathe the very idea of being anywhere near me: from the students in my Potions classes all the way back to my own classmates. I’ve always managed, first to learn, then to teach, without having to making peace with any of them. Still, it shouldn’t be so awkward, trying to reason with a stubborn young man who cannot bear my presence. Trying to talk sense into him is like wandering at night after a Hinkypunk’s lantern as it leads deeper into a quagmire. Reconciliation shouldn’t be this difficult. 

Perhaps, just as in duelling, it’s all about taking your opponent by surprise.

“I’m sorry I provoked you, Potter,” I say when yet another nervous glance in my direction slips past his pretence of ignoring me.

He looks up with a gasp, so startled he falls straight through the bench.

As amusing as it is to see him tumble down with glasses askew, looking appalled at his own blunder, I do not dare to test his temper by smiling. Although the long walk seems to have cooled him down, even a slight sign of mockery would surely alienate him even more. 

I watch him scramble to his feet. “What? It’s bloody weird to hear you apologise,” he mutters as an irritated excuse.

“We’ll have to learn to coexist,” I explain and hope he is calm enough to listen to reason. “I’ve made my effort, now it’s your turn.”

“Oi! I’ve got nothing to apologise to you for.” He raises his shoulders defensively, takes a step back to the footpath, and stares. 

Predictable. “You don’t have to, but talking to me would be a good start.”

“Why? Just read my mind and be done with it,” he grumbles.

He’s still angry then. Perhaps he has a right to be. I recall my own irritation at the way Albus always attempted to slip past my defences. So instead of returning fire I remain silent, simply shaking my head at Potter’s accusations.

“Why not?” he sneers. “You can’t do it any more without magic, is that it? Too bad, it must’ve been your favourite pastime.”

He makes it seem as if I enjoyed scrutinizing others’ thoughts. What sane person would want such a task? “I never did Legilimency for my own amusement.” 

“Why did you do it at all?” he persists. “How can you just invade people’s heads?”

“I didn’t ‘invade’, Potter.” Wandless Legilimency isn’t that effective. “I was able to pick up emotions and strong images for short periods of time. Usually little more than a student of human nature could guess from mere facial expression.” It’s not as if I had a choice in the matter, any more than I had a choice in becoming a Legilimens. Albus discovered my talent for this borderline-Dark Art and deemed it – and me – an appropriate weapon to wield for the cause of good. 

He looks sceptical. “It still doesn’t explain why you’d read my mind.”

Certainly not because I had any desire to rummage though his thoughts. “I only did it a few times. Dumbledore wanted me to watch for any hints of the Dark Lord’s influence upon you.”

His eyes widen at my mention of Albus’ name. “Dumbledore asked you?”

As if anyone else could possibly force me to look into Potter’s head. “Yes, it was a necessity. If it makes you feel any better, he never asked me to do anything he wasn’t willing to do himself.” It doesn’t make _me_ feel any better about being Albus’ prized spy in yet another form, but this small difference between Dumbledore and the Dark Lord did in fact decide my allegiance. Albus never made me do anything he wouldn’t do on his own. Perhaps now Potter can take comfort in the fact that the final decision came from someone he trusts. 

One look at him convinces me that my attempts at reassurance did not work as intended; he turns more nervous and wary than before. “Himself? Did Dumbledore try to read my thoughts as well?”

Ah, didn’t think of that, did you? But then, who would? Intrusions that were only to be expected from the sour, grim Potions teacher would be completely unthinkable coming from the kindly, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts. I recall the many times I sat in Albus’ office – distracted by shiny gadgets, lulled by tea and warmth, basking in the glow of absolute protection – and I carefully reconsider my reply. “No. It was my job.” 

Albus did read his mind, for all I know. He certainly attempted to read mine once in awhile – ‘for your own good, my boy’ – always for my own good. But what good would it do now if I ruin one of Potter’s cherished beliefs? Haven’t I done that once too often already? Albus Dumbledore can do no wrong; everyone needs a pretty dream to believe in.

Potter settles on the bench, precisely in the middle this time. He is quiet for a while, turning over my words in his mind, trying to fit this new shape that his world has just adopted, into the familiar box of his preconceptions. “I suppose the Headmaster needed to know in case Voldemort ever decided to plant himself on the back of my head,” he justifies. “Better you than Voldemort.” 

Potter is absolutely right. After the countless impromptu interrogations I should know: the Dark Lord was never as considerate a Legilimens as I was. 

“And you’re wrong, Snape,” he adds, unexpectedly. “I was frustrated and angry at you back at Hogwarts. But I don’t think I hated you. I just couldn’t understand why you had to treat us like dirt. I still don’t. Why? Did it make you happy?”

I look at him in wonder. No, he is the same Potter: messy hair, lopsided smile, and Albus’ glasses on his transparent face. Yet out of all my students, he’s the first one to ask this question with some semblance of sincerity. Apparently, life is still capable of pleasant moments when I least expect them.

Why? There are many reasons. There are those that I’d never voice aloud, that I wouldn’t know how to put in plain words. How do I explain seeing the cruel, patronizing faces of James Potter and his gang behind every group of Gryffindors gathering in my dungeons: behind Granger’s smug superiority, behind Weasley’s eagerness to fight, behind Potter’s own disregard for rules? How do I explain the frustration of watching my pupils destroy their ingredients for years and then go out into the world and use their brand-new N.E.W.T.s to get better jobs than I, for all my skills, could ever hope to get? How do I explain my yearly rage at Dumbledore for treating me like a recovering drunk not to be admitted into the pub: ‘no, Severus, Defence still isn’t a good idea, we’ll see how you do with your current subject’. He never said the Dark Arts, but it was certainly implied with each softly spoken, well-practiced line. 

Where do I begin explaining it all? Perhaps I’ll start with the obvious.

“Imagine waking up daily to the thankless task of keeping a pack of dunderheads from blowing each other up,” I finally tell him and watch him nod with a roguish smile, as if being a dunderhead is something to be proud of. “Imagine keeping a certain group of spoiled little brats satisfied at all times so they won’t whine to their fathers about you favouring the ‘Headmaster’s precious pets’, and ruin your cover as a spy.” The smile disappears off his face and his eyebrows climb up in surprise. Judging by his reaction, that hadn’t occurred to him before. “And, then,” I conclude with a smirk, “imagine dealing with someone like young and adventurous _Mis-ter_ Potter, a new celebrity determined to undermine your every effort to keep him out of harm’s way.” 

He makes an offended noise at my description of him, but doesn’t argue.

“Does that answer your question?” I ask him curtly, before he finds something else in my words to dispute.

“I suppose.” he replies. “It’s hard to understand you. For years I just thought you hated everyone: Neville, your students in general, my father, me because of him, Defence teachers because you wanted their job, sunlight because it made you squint…”

No wonder Potter doesn’t get it. I have trouble understanding myself. Why did I stay teaching at Hogwarts? How did I restrain myself from murdering someone? Why did I not simply stand aside one day and let my pupils blow each other and the school to pieces? 

It’s too late to ask myself these questions. They are all in the past.

“Yes,” I agree, deadpan. “You may blame the sunlight if it helps.”

The look on his face is priceless. I almost send him tumbling through the bench and onto the ground for the second time.

The sunlight? Yes, it must be. The sun often plays tricks on us. Under it even familiar things turn unexpectedly novel: memories gain a fresh perspective, the old changes to allow room for the new. I watch my wayward ghost interact with the world, blink in surprise, display anger or sadness, smile, adjust his glasses, fix his weightless fringe over his forehead, and now none of these mannerisms remind me of his father as strongly as they used to. Only when James’ face comes up in some unwanted memory do I notice the resemblance nowadays. It has ceased to concern me.

When did I start thinking that James Potter has Harry’s face instead of the opposite? Somewhere along the line the change slipped by unnoticed. I suppose it’s the natural way of the world, but still it’s startling to see that even James Potter’s misdeeds fade away with time to make place for new memories. 

Somewhere in the tree tops, a turtledove asks the world a question over and over. A pack of sparrows gathers on the footpath. Harry watches them squabble over some rare find, looking very much like a sparrow himself, scrappy and agile, with his feathers ruffled in every direction. The empty expression he’s been showing for the past week is gone. Bringing him outside did wonders for him.

He stares at the tree shadows reaching over the sunlit grass and the trails running every which way among the tree trunks and squares of green. “Where are we?” 

“Lincoln’s Inn Fields.” By the look on his face I can tell that the name doesn’t mean anything to him. “Central London,” I add then. 

“I knew that part,” he grins. “Guessed it from the address on your mail.”

Trust him to start haunting me without even knowing where I live until it is shoved under his nose in writing. “Have you ever seen Muggle London before?”

He shakes his head. “Besides King’s Cross, only what I’ve seen with you. Why d’you always have to hurry through the streets? I barely get a chance to look around.”

Why would anyone, even a ghost, want to linger in that noisy labyrinth filled with exhaust fumes? There is hardly anything worthwhile to see. “Come on, then.” I get up from the bench and start walking toward the gates before another freezing gust of wind catches me sitting down and unmoving. 

“Where are we going?” he asks, instantly jumping to my side, like a second shadow.

“To find a better view than you’re accustomed to.” We’re almost in the area; I might as well take him somewhere worth visiting.

He nods and all but skips along merrily, delighted at the sunlight and the trees. Who says ghosts aren’t affected by the seasons? This one’s like a weed. Shine some light on him, give him some air, and he stretches toward the sky. No wonder he was glued to my windows. 

“I never would’ve thought you’d end up in London,” he tells me. “Or learn the local sights.”

“Why?” Do I have a banner with ominous writing over my head: Not Suited For City Life? Or any place with other residents, for that matter.

“You just don’t seem like someone who’d enjoy it,” he explains. “All the noise and the crowds.”

He is right. I’ve lived in London for years but the only thing that still keeps me here is the belief that Muggles will find a way to be just as loud and obnoxious no matter where I go. “It’s adequate, for the most part; it would be better if all the people moved to live elsewhere.” But I mustn’t ask for too much in life. 

He only laughs, the insolent scamp. “I didn’t know you could tell jokes.”

As if I’d joke about a thing like that.

  
*

“Brilliant!” Potter barely holds on to the railing, leaning further than any human would be able to without losing balance. He grins against the wind that doesn’t rearrange his hair or attack his clothing at all, not the way it does with mine. “The best view in London.”

Hardly. But any others have been beyond my reach for the past seven years. I follow Potter’s example and lean against the railing for support as I look down. Water, it seems, is another ingredient required for successful ghost care. “I’d caution you against falling in, but it’s too late to do any real damage.”

“That’s an idea.” He flashes an audacious smile. “I wonder if I can swim.” 

Below us the waters of the Thames roll by, blue and deep like the sky above them, the wave tops shimmering under the sun. Behind us is the Millennium Wheel, perched on the river shore like a slow moving, colossal water mill. All around us is the noise and the rush of automobile traffic over the Waterloo Bridge. The bridge carries with it the usual city sounds and smells; but the river is stronger, absorbing them with its own: the seagulls’ cries and the breeze full of moisture and fresh air. The cold wind slaps against my face, shoving damp hair over my eyes and ears.

I have to raise my voice over the wind and the traffic noises in order to reply. “If you can’t swim, I doubt anyone else would be jumping to your rescue.”

He eyes the wide expanse of cold, radiant waters in front of him, almost ready to let go and test that theory in practice. “No one else’d even see me, Snape,” he considers, only half mockingly. “It’s going to be up to you.”

“In that case, you’re doomed.” I declare to the wind. 

He makes a face at that and defiantly moves closer to the edge.

A couple of passers-by, leisurely strolling along the path, give me an odd look or two when they overhear my words but don’t see anyone listening. I go along with their wishes and press a hand against my ear, pretending to hold one of those silly Muggle contraptions, a mobile, in my palm. “Go on,” I say. “I refuse to save you from your own rashness yet again.”

Their faces grow disinterested and dull. It amazes me how this one gesture makes talking to the empty air so much more acceptable. They turn away, certain of having solved the mystery of the old man talking to himself in the middle of the bridge. To them, I’m just a parent berating his unfortunate offspring for another failure. It’s easy to assume the labels that Muggles pack in their minds for every occasion.

Harry watches them leave and laughs softly after I take my hand away from my ear. “You did all right adjusting to the city life, for a Professor who never got out past Hogwarts’ wards.” 

A stern look works as well as any spoken reply to his remark. What does he know about what I saw and what the wards hid me from? There are roads travelled in our pasts that none of us especially want to take again.

They say that cities are born of crossroads. They grow around the point where two pathways meet. London is no exception, born of a crossing between the Thames, the waterway for vessels heading for the ocean, and some road, perhaps even this one. If that’s true, then we’re standing in the very centre of London, and this bridge is the heart of the city, the place where it all began.

How many times have these waters reflected the truth on people’s faces? The Thames holds countless secrets in its depths. It’s easy to confess them to the river. No matter what world one lived in, Wizarding or Muggle, the river was always there, constant, unyielding, whispering promises, hiding secrets and soothing aches. Years passed, trees and structures grew and fell around it, the skyline changed, but the Thames remained. It’s harsh and persistent, and it’s older than anything, save the ground in which it etched its path. It’s cold and deep, and more accepting than the city that grew around it.

I remember a different bridge over the same river, and a young fool with his forearm sore from the summons, a painful reminder of his most recent mistake. Was I ever the fool in those memories? I wasn’t much older than Harry then, already tired of life but too frightened to die; though I craved the acceptance that those dark waters offered, and for one second I was ready to jump with Luce’s name in my mind and on my lips. Just as it was when I jumped into the Death Eater ranks: my mind was too full of Lucius for second thoughts.

Another bridge over the Thames rises unbidden from my memories. The cold winter night turns to a warm summer evening, my first summer in Muggle London. And I remember myself again, much older than that young fool, hungry and worn-out, sick of trying and getting nowhere, staring into the river’s depths as if they contained an answer to my questions, watching the water’s glimmering highlights beckoning as if each one was _Lumos_ cast with my non-functioning wand. I remember tearing my gaze from the water to the note in my hand: Malfoy, D. it proclaimed in flourishing handwriting, followed by an address not too far from where I stood, in a respectable area filled with offices of law firms and business headquarters. It seems to have happened so long ago.

This time, it’s a bit cooler than usual, but it’s still undoubtedly spring. I am on a bridge over the Thames yet again, only for the first time in ages I am here for reasons that have nothing to do with Lucius or his son. Instead of them, I have the ghost who invaded my life; much as the highway, with its busy traffic and city sounds, breached and crossed the calm waters of the Thames. 

He is sitting on the railing, on the very edge, in a way I never dared even when I was young. There is nothing in front of him but the vast expanse of water. I had the railing in front of me, and I stepped away from it in time because suddenly there was an option that didn’t occur to me before, a choice that tied me to Albus Dumbledore for all these years; whether that choice was for better or for worse, I still cannot tell.

He leans over, his face as curious as mine when I stared into the river long ago, trying to decipher the secrets hidden beneath the shimmering light on its waves. He gazes down, takes his arms off the railing and spreads them like wings.

And then he jumps.

My heart seizes. HARRY!

Instant reflex has me reaching, before I realise in the next moment that there’s nothing to hold onto over the railing, only empty space. I cannot catch a spirit; it’s useless to even try.

Fool! Is he trying to drown himself after already dying once? As I look down I see him, plummeting so fast he’s almost freefalling. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding when he slows down at the very end, a small, shining figure, almost indistinguishable against the shimmering waves. 

I strain my eyes to see what happens. Did he look up? Is he moving at all?

No, I realise with a gasp. The idiot is walking. He is walking on water. And I don’t need to see his face to know that he’s wearing a grin as wide as the world.

Spellbound by the vision only I can see, I watch him take the next step, and then another, as the waters of the Thames dance beneath his feet.

  
*

“What could you possibly have been thinking?” I grumble as soon as the buildings block the last glimpse of the Thames from view. I take another step on the crowded street and reassure myself that I am finally back on solid ground. The young woman who followed me since I turned onto the Strand gives me a worried look and sidles behind her companion’s back, out of sight. One-sided conversations aren’t taken as a good sign in the Muggle world unless one has an appropriate excuse, so I raise my hand pretending to press a small box into my ear once again. “Answer me!”

Harry hovers a few steps ahead, high enough to avoid being run through by every passer-by. “I just wanted to see the water up close. What’s wrong with that?” He shrugs his shoulders and flashes a tentative smile. 

He looks a bit tired, but it’s a contented tiredness: he’s happier than I’ve seen him in days. He’s been rushing ahead whenever he’s had a chance, gawping at the busy streets with their traffic and tall buildings. If I ignore the fact that he is transparent and floating, he’d be just like many young men leaving some quiet place in favour of the big city right after their last exams, coming to London in search of fame and fortune. Just like them, he is wide-eyed and excited at the new scenery, wanting to try so many things at once that he is at a loss to know which one to choose first.

“So, what’s next?” he asks barely avoiding a collision with someone’s head. He somersaults higher this time, and I have to stretch my neck to follow his movements. Suddenly his face lights up. “Oi, can we go to the zoo?”

“The zoo?” I might have been too quick to think him grown-up. What absurdity will he ask for next? A bedtime story?

“Yeah,” he rambles excitedly. “I bet it’s even bigger than the one the Dursleys took me to. That one was brilliant. I talked to the snake!”

“That’s fascinating, Potter.” My drawl hints that just the opposite is true.

“You don’t have to make fun of me!” he cries. “I just want to see if I can still talk to them.”

So he wants to converse with snakes. Fine. I suspect that it wouldn’t help even if I did take him there. He may hiss in Parseltongue for hours, but I’m starting to believe that no serpent would pay attention to him, just like Albus and just like everyone else. It’s not the snakes he wants, but the assurance that he still belongs in this world. That he exists. It’s something I cannot give him, for I am not even entirely certain I believe it.

I shake my head and make sure to speak into the imaginary box in my hand rather than directly at him. “You’ll have to postpone that little jaunt. I have no plans of getting anywhere near the London Zoo on Friday afternoon. It’s unpleasant enough to tolerate these crowds without the sight of caged animals.” Poor beasts, they never have a chance of escaping those maddening daily gatherings full of whiny children and obnoxious laughter. Trapped and subjected to daily ridicule, I know exactly how they feel, and I can only pity them.

Potter looks ready to argue, but stops himself. “Well, what are your plans?” he asks instead.

“Nothing as exciting as the zoo. First, I am going to find a place to eat.” Unlike a certain ghost, real or not, I still require food daily. “It’s past tea time and I haven’t had anything since breakfast.” And that had only been coffee. 

“And then?” Stubbornly, he presses on.

“That’s still a ‘no’, Potter.”

“Fine,” he nods and waves toward some garish place with a gaudy, lit-up sign. “Here’s one. Eat and let’s talk about it.”

What part of ‘no’ does he not comprehend? And, most importantly, is he trying to poison me? I take one look at the garish yellow and green plastic sign labelled “Subway” and the equally bright artificial lighting inside, and I back away. Of course, he had to pick something not only utterly Muggle, but also incapable of serving a decent meal. “I refuse to set foot inside that establishment. Even under the threat of starving to death.” 

His eyebrows lift. “Why not? It seems all right.”

I do not waste time explaining the obvious. Instead I make it a point to escape the Strand with its busy footpaths, noisy traffic, and its “Subway” as soon as possible.

“Well, see if _you_ can find anything,” he mutters, trying to catch up.

Fleet Street isn’t any better, but occasionally the old wood and brick structures rising among the concrete megaliths remind me that Muggles were capable of producing some semblance of passable architectural style. I turn into a narrow alley where the buildings seem to have aged years for every step I take further in. Harry, floating above me and looking anywhere but forward, almost runs his head through the discreet round sign.

“Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese.” He proves himself capable of reading when I am almost convinced otherwise. “Rebuilt in 1667.”

I nod. Why settle for anything else in the area? “Go on.” I point at the panelled wooden door. 

He glances at it with suspicion and remains still. “You first.”

Potter remains wary and cautious, very unlike him, when he follows me through the door. Inside it is warm and quiet and it smells of baked bread and cooking spices that remind me how long it’s been since I’ve eaten. 

There is no magic left in Britain, but occasionally I do find a Muggle place filled with the spirit of old times, like this one, and it’s the closest I can get to touching the past.

The room to the left of the main entrance is empty of people, with dark wood panelling along white walls and the outside light streaming through the hand-blown glass in the windows. Harry glides warily ahead of me to the centre of the room and it’s this caution of his that makes me wonder if this place affects him too with its aged atmosphere, so ancient it might as well be a ghost of itself, like Potter, a reminder of times long gone. 

Although quiet, this place seems to be waiting for something. The hard wood benches polished from centuries of use wait for someone special to return and run their hands again over the smooth, slightly uneven surfaces. The long oaken table at the window waits for a tightly-knit group of friends or a family of twelve to come in and take over the entire room with their laughter, good-natured teasing, and spirited banter. Days pass in silence, yet like an aging parent, this place waits patiently for its many children to return home time and time again for holidays and birthdays.

I cross the room with its bare floorboards and sawdust, closer to the coals burning in the fireplace where the large mirror above the mantelpiece shows my reflection but not Potter’s. Even with those standard Muggle lights placed inside the antique lamps, I still expect the silent mirror to grow dim like a Foe-Glass, still imagine one of the unmoving portraits will wink in my direction, still think the antique china jugs have been put on the mantelpiece to hold Floo Powder. 

I settle at the dark, oaken table in the corner next to the fire, where the light is lower and I can observe the room unbothered and unnoticed for the most part. Harry slips onto the bench right through its end piece to sit across from me. He does relax a little and starts eyeing the place with the same curiosity as the streets we passed today. 

When the waiter finally finds me, I notice that he looks a bit like Harry. He is taller and older by a couple of years, but he navigates from table to table with the same clumsy unease Potter displays at times, as if he’s not used to the layout of the place yet. His dark brown hair can certainly use a comb and he gives me a familiar lopsided grin when I only take five seconds to glance at the menu prices and, by habit and necessity, order the cheapest meal there, the Ploughman’s Lunch.

He could be a university student trying to make some extra money by working here. But then, he could be anyone. Harry could have been him, if he’d somehow survived past seventeen, working a side job in the afternoons and attending his lectures every morning. He would have fit in here without even needing to try, just another young face at the atmospheric old pub among the noisy streets a few blocks away from the riverbank. He would have liked such a life, I suppose. 

When my food arrives, a small, freshly-baked loaf with the dark-golden crust still warm and hard, with slices of cheese and pickled cucumbers on the plate next to it, Potter eyes it with the same hungry look I am trying not to reveal. Instead, I curl my hands around a cup of hot tea to warm them up, and only then start eating my meal slowly, savouring every bite.

He shifts back and forth on the bench impatiently, unable to sit still without something to occupy his mind. 

“I’ve been thinking about you teaching us Potions,” he declares at last. “And d’you know what I think?”

I’m not in any particular hurry to find out, but I daresay he is going to tell me anyway. I raise a questioning eyebrow and simply wait.

He blinks and stares at the burning coals in the fireplace, obviously trying to rationalise something to himself after not receiving a desired response to his initial question. I let him think it over, cradling the teacup in my hands and taking another sip. 

“You were an utter bastard.”

I nearly choke at the hot liquid, breathing in at the wrong time. He just gives me a stubborn “Uh-huh”, which in Potter-speak apparently stands for ‘it’s the truth and I meant every word of it’. 

Fine, so be it. “Insults aside, I hope you realise that if I had to do it all over again, I would still treat you the same way,” I tell him in a stubborn tone of my own, struggling not to cough. If he was fishing for an apology, he’ll never find it here.

He shrugs carelessly. “Like I said, a bastard, but a bearable one, I suppose.”

“Is that so?” The look I give him shows exactly what I think of such a description: it’s a glare fit to incinerate.

“Only just bearable, mind you,” he adds, growing more tense with every word. “Course, you wouldn’t be you without all the insults and the bloody bad temper. That’s who you are. When you’re like that, with that . . .”

It’s aggravating to hear him stammer and hesitate, abusing the simplest of phrases. “Potter,” you utter cretin, “just say it.”

He does, with his face determined and thoughtful. “I meant, I don’t mind being around you.” And then: “You’re sort of all right now you’re not my teacher any more.”

Oh. I start searching for words to berate him for his audacity, or call his bluff, but nothing appropriate comes to mind.

“But if you ever try to teach me Potions again, we’re going to have a serious problem,” Potter adds with a grin, obviously not worried about such a fate. 

Just outside the darkly-framed doorway I hear a faint ding of something metal hitting the wooden floor and a muffled apology that follows right after.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it,” a woman’s voice answers.

I force my attention back into the room to find it still empty. It’s fortunate; otherwise I would have had a much harder time explaining away my one-sided conversations.

Outside the door, the voices continue in hushed tones. “Are you sure?” some young man – our waiter, I recognise the voice – asks excitedly.

“Of course I am,” the woman confirms, “your sweetie has been waiting across the street since three.”

I arch an eyebrow at Potter. “Don’t worry. No sane person would be willing to take on the hopeless task of teaching you,” I tell him just to see his mouth twist in mock offence.

Over the top of his bench, I notice two figures in front of the doorway. The first one is our waiter, waving his hands about in a rather childish excitement. “That’s brilliant! Thank you!”

His enthusiasm seems to work. “Oh, go on with you, Bobby! If it wasn’t for your girl, I’d be taking you home to meet my daughter in an instant.” The speaker is an older woman, short and round, with her hair, grey over ginger, gathered in a modest bun at the base of her neck.

“At least you’ve stopped calling me Harry,” our waiter grins at her and disappears from sight.

“Off you go, Bobby,” the woman calls after him. “One mistake, and he’ll never let me forget it,” she rolls her eyes mockingly as she enters the room. It seems to be a private joke between them.

Harry. 

The name pushes me out of my reverie. This must be a coincidence. Harry isn’t exclusive. Harry is a very popular name. There are plenty of reasons to call someone Harry. There are dozens of perfectly good explanations for this. Unless . . . unless she, like me, noticed the resemblance to someone she used to know. Harry, the real Harry. 

Harry Potter. 

No, this cannot be a simple coincidence. I look at her and glance across the table where Potter sits, stunned at hearing his name from someone else’s lips just like that. Immediately I know that he heard it as well, and he knows. He knows what I know. There is no way he could have hidden that shock and fear, and at the same time the gleam of excitement and hope in his eyes as she walks over to our table.

“Can I get anything else for you?” she asks. 

I hesitate for a second, and do not look at her directly. I look at Harry instead, as he stares and stares and then gasps in recognition. And then, as he does, I recognise her at well. There are a few more lines on her face and more grey in her hair since I saw her last, but the optimistic gleam in her dark, earnest eyes is unmistakeably the same. How the hell didn’t I notice before that it is Molly Weasley who is standing just an arm’s length away?

“Sir, did you hear me?” she repeats, and I turn my head to her. Only then she gasps, as Harry did just a few seconds before her, and as she stares at me a smile spreads slowly on her round face as if her closest friend was sitting at the table instead of me. 

“Severus! I never thought I’d see the day.”

“Mrs. Weasley?” Harry echoes and at that she follows the line of my vision to the seat across from me and freezes with a hand to her mouth, surprise and sadness mixed together on her face as Potter looks back.

Finally she clears her throat. “Hello, Harry,” she enunciates as if talking to a child, “How are you, dear?”

“Just fine,” he stammers; his eyes large and shocked and brimming with hope.

But she already turns to me and to my surprise her polite smile becomes one of genuine delight. “Wait until Ginny hears about this. She simply must see you.” She goes on and on, nattering to me as Harry stares at her, the delight on his face matching hers. And if she paid any attention at all to him at the moment, she would see the way he shouts with his eyes without saying a word: _I am real!_

He is real. Molly saw him. He has his wish at last.

Molly keeps on talking, but for a while I lose the thread. I nod at hopefully appropriate places, but all I can think is, he truly exists, and I am sane.

"You never stayed for dinner at Grimmauld, this is your chance to make up for it,” Molly announces. And as I glance at my plate, somehow I think that even the excuse of just having had a meal would not work with her. 

“Nonsense,” she says, quickly guessing my ploy, and obviously determined that her invitation will succeed. And I realise that it would be very hard to resist Molly’s powers of persuasion. I pause and glance in Harry’s direction. She casts me a quizzical look and adds quickly: “Harry, dear, you’re certainly invited as well.”

Didn’t I promise to take him to meet a survivor, a normal survivor? Someone who can see him and talk to him and listen to what he has to say? I still owe Potter this trip. I’ve owed it to him ever since that morning at Tottenham Court Road.

And so I agree to wait here until Molly’s work shift ends and accept her dinner invitation, without even knowing where she’ll take us. Although I do wonder where in London Molly Weasley found a new home. I hope it’s nowhere near the zoo; if it is, he’ll probably still talk me into seeing the snakes.

*

We leave the Cheshire Cheese after six and take the Circle line from the Temple station. The Underground is packed, but Molly leads on through the evening crowd with practiced movements. I follow her and so does Harry, who seems puzzled by her habit of not addressing him directly, and keeps giving her curious glances. She doesn’t notice him, or pretends not to as she continues talking about the Magician shop that the twins run in Glasgow, Charlie’s most recent letter, and the prospect of surprising her daughter. I nod and feign some interest in her children’s well-being, recalling that her eldest son worked at Gringotts with his fiancée that spring, and another was a Ministry hand. It doesn’t take me long to deduce their fate, especially since her conversation never mentions them. 

Potter remains quiet. Why doesn’t he say something to her? Ask her something, anything? What happened to his desire to see the survivors? Here is one, so why doesn’t he talk?

“Whoa, too many people,” Potter complains, wincing and rubbing his forehead. “I’ll be back.” His image winks out, leaving me with only the lingering feeling of being watched. I’m used to that by now.

Perhaps he is simply tired. We’ve been wandering the busy streets and seeing new places ever since morning. And having crowds walk right through you cannot be a pleasant experience.

Molly watches him disappear but doesn’t remark on it. Only when we’re past the Tower Hill station heading north does she ask me, just loud enough to be heard over the train’s noise: “So, why are you stuck with his ghost?”

I asked myself the same question in the beginning. Why me? I never did get a sufficient explanation. “No particular reason. He just found me one morning.” There, any further details of his arrival at my flat can be omitted.

“He must’ve really hated you back in school if he’s haunting you now.” She sighs in sympathy.

What I really want explained is why, after she saw him herself, she still keeps treating him like an imaginary friend of one of her children or an unfortunate stain on her holiday clothing. He is a ghost, but he doesn’t deserve to be talked down to like an infant or a pet.

“Have you found a way to make him leave yet? Even Muggles must have some method,” she asks with a concerned smile.

‘Make him leave’? The situation’s a great deal more complicated than she realises. “If I ask him, he usually keeps quiet for a few hours. He is not as much distraction as I had expected.”

“You _are_ planning on getting rid of him, aren’t you?” she gasps, clearly concerned.

“Why?”

“Are you mad, Severus? He’s a ghost!” In her agitation she has to force her voice back down to a loud, but still clearly-heard whisper. “He isn’t real. Why are you keeping him around and encouraging him? You’re treating him as though he’s still alive.”

“Need I remind you that he is Harry Potter?” He’s still the same, the best friend of her youngest son, as she seems to have conveniently forgotten over the years. “No, he isn’t alive. But he’s quite real. Just because he’s transparent and is able to walk through walls, doesn’t mean he needs to be banished or ignored.” I can name plenty of other reasons for doing so, but this is absurd.

She shakes her head sadly. “When I was little my great-uncle John haunted us for a while, and he always had these daft ideas. I even listened to him at times; he was very convincing. But, Severus, ghosts aren’t people. No matter how much they look like a person, they aren’t to be trusted. They’re too detached from reality. He might seem almost human to you, but he’s _not_. Not anymore. . .”

Doesn’t she realise that I know this already? I feel a momentary twinge of pity for the ghost of great-uncle John, whatever his fate was. “Potter is the most human ghost I’ve ever encountered. I wouldn’t trust him in Potions, but I believe that he’s sane.”

“That's what I’m worried about: you, believing him. He’ll have you going mad in no time,” she predicts, her lips thinning into a disapproving line.

Just when I thought my doubts were unwarranted, Molly has voiced my fears again. Had I still considered Potter to be a figment of my imagination, I would have agreed with her. But Potter’s ghost is real. Harry is real. She hasn’t been around him as long as I have. She didn’t see him making a decision to leave, didn’t hear him talking about his Hogwarts, didn’t witness his grief after meeting Albus. She doesn’t know him as well as I do. 

We exit the Underground at Euston Square station, in an area which, to my surprise, is not that far from Camden. I follow her as she turns onto a familiar street, too familiar to my eyes. It’s the road I usually take to see Albus Dumbledore, past the rail yards and the luridly-coloured concrete towers.

The housing complex. Ampthill Square Estate, the sign says. And here they are, the epitome of Muggle garishness, three grey concrete towers, one trimmed in tangerine, one in blue, and one in yellow, clashing horribly with everything around them and each other. I’ve walked by them many times in the past. They’ve always reminded me of the homes that the house martins make, one on top of the other, packed tightly into the grey mud of the riverbanks. Wherever they nest, the very air seems alive with multitudes of nimble little birds, darting out of their dark nest holes, soaring higher and higher, never to touch the earth. 

But humans aren’t birds, and how did Molly manage to survive living here, more crowded than the Burrow and probably ten times as obnoxious?

“We’re almost home,” she points to the tangerine tower.

Of course, I should have guessed it. How could I ever doubt fate’s irony? It’s the only constant thing in life.

Harry’s transparent form appears discreetly behind my back only after I follow Molly past the yellow tower and the blue and almost to the top inside the tower trimmed with garish orange-red.

“Ginny,” she calls out when she opens the door to her humble abode. “Just look who came to see us.”

*

My mother lives these days in a council housing estate near central London, and since this spring, so do I. I like it here, so I don’t mind the noise or the tiny rooms. They’re high enough that I can see the tracks and the sun setting over the low grey roofs, but they’re still low enough to the ground that I can hear the neighbours’ children laugh as they chase after the ball or each other. Small and crowded, this place reminds me of our childhood home, the way it was before, when Dad and all my brothers were there and we were able to renew the wards to keep it from falling apart completely.

Mum’s been very kind but she worries too much about me. She let me have her bedroom, and now she sleeps on a sofa in the living room, behind a bright patchwork curtain, all colourful speckles and stripes; she brought it with us when we left the Burrow. 

Mum, of course, thinks everything is all right ever since I came back from Glasgow. But I am not my mother and things aren’t right at all. 

They haven’t been right for a long time, and I can’t make it all better just by washing the windows. I stretch, rather clumsily, and try to get all the smudges and stains so I can pretend that they were never there to begin with. I’ve been trying to pretend that for an awfully long time. I wish I could wash my whole life clean and focus on the bright side of things, like Mum. 

But things aren’t bright. They’re not. And I’m scared. I’m scared of all this, more scared than I was of losing my magic or my brothers, more scared than I am of sleepwalking. I’m terrified, because I’m not like my mother. I’m not like her at all. I’ll never make as good of a Mum to my baby as she was to us.

How did I change from the freckled, redheaded girl in my childhood photos to this: twenty-three and more clueless than the kid I used to be, mercilessly teased by her older brothers for her shyness and silly crushes? I cocked up in every sense of the word, didn’t I, Gred’n’Forge? You told me I could stay, joked about needing another apprentice, but you also promised you wouldn’t string up that ‘two-timing no-good bastard’ by the bollocks and teach him a lesson. We both know how that went! You shouldn’t have, really. It was my fault as much as it was his. Who knew that a lonely life with my two cats would seem so much more appealing than the threat of turning into my mother? I want to write more than my diaries some day. I want to try new things. I still want to be a chaser for the Holyhead Harpies even though they haven’t existed for the last seven years. My life isn’t over yet, damn it!

Except it is.

Sometimes I wonder if I’m going to be like Mum in ten or twenty years. If I’ll be telling a child of my own that it’s their own fault if they’re bored, and start handing out more chores. At first Mum was asking if I needed more housework, but then she only complained about the mess when I started rearranging the flat. I guess that, like the twins, I can’t do anything right these days as far as she’s concerned.

Oh, how Mum yelled at them over the phone when I came back from Glasgow! She couldn’t trust them to look after me for a second. It was their fault I met the bloke, their fault I left him, their fault they almost murdered him, and their fault for telling me that I’m better off alone. Poor Gred’n’Forge. They didn’t even visit for their birthday because Mum was still fuming, even said that she wouldn’t let them anywhere near the baby when it’s born.

As if Mum has a say in it. 

She will, and she does, actually. Because that’s the reason I came to London: to learn how to be a good mother from her.

I’ve got two cats. Two mangy strays, grouchy at each other and the world. When I finally let them sneak past the door they’d been staking out for months, I named one Riddle and another Tom. The first few days, I remembered to feed them only because they wouldn’t let me take another step if I forgot to refill their bowls every morning and every evening. Otherwise, we let each other be. 

But this’d be nothing like taking care of a cat. I can’t ignore a child. I can’t name a child after my own conquered fears.

I’ve got three more months before I have to become my mother, for the baby’s sake and for my own as well.

Soon Mum’ll be home, and her whole after work routine’ll start all over again. She’ll come in and chew me out for not shutting the bedroom door and leaving the windows open for so long when it’s still cold outside. She’ll disappear behind her patchwork curtain and come out wearing her hand-knit jumper, warm and soft. She’ll swap her walking shoes for the fuzzy slippers that have been showing just a bit under the curtain. She’ll wash her hands and face. Then she’ll light the kerosene lamp on the table even though the light switch is just a step away.

“I’ll never be used to this ekeltricity thing,” she still says, and I’m thankful that Dad used to bring home his gadgets and silly manuals for years. Without him, I wouldn’t know how to change a light bulb or use the washing machine. I couldn’t help Mum out with money since I came back, but at least I can help her with that.

She’ll work in her restaurant and I’ll stay home, finish cleaning whatever I can manage, and fix whatever needs fixing around the flat. We’ll continue our little routines day by day and see where we’ll end up later, probably before the next three months are over.

The front door lock clicks open, quiet as the ticking of a clock counting down the dwindling days, and I hear her careful footsteps.

“Ginny,” Mum says, “just look who came to see us.”

And so I walk – or rather waddle – to the living room where her voice is coming from, and I look.

It’s impossible not to recognise the tall, sour-faced man, but who’d’ve thought that I’d ever see my old Potions Professor again, much less on our doorstep? He survived after all. And then . . .

Harry.

For a second I’m thrown back into my childhood. Back when everything was right and simple and when things had magic, when the brave hero killed the monster and saved me from my fears. Only, I was never that satisfied with the role of a fairytale princess.

And Harry’s… not alive anymore. Of course he isn’t. He’s just a ghost and ghosts aren’t real. Didn’t Mum always say that?

“Miss Weasley,” Professor Snape nods, as curt and unpleasant as ever.

I give him a thin-lipped smile; it’s the look Mum always uses on our neighbours to the left, the ones who leave the music playing till midnight and don’t respond well to polite requests.

“Hi, Ginny,” Harry grins. As if he’s visiting at the Burrow at the end of summer, or as if we’re meeting back at Hogwarts at the start of a new school year. He’s exactly the same as I remember: the embodiment of memories that must not be brought up anymore.

It’s not until after Mum goes to the kitchen to fix tea in her favourite teapot that she brought all the way from our Burrow – “Those Muggle things just don’t have the same taste,” – that I can wrap my mind around the idea of Harry’s ghost in our flat. The existence of Harry’s ghost. Still, he looks so real, only his hair used to be less messy and his glasses were bigger and heavier and showed less of his face. 

He settles on the edge of the table, looking rather lost next to Professor Snape, who is gloomy as always. What a mismatched pair of visitors they are. Harry stays quiet till Mum comes back with tea and crumpets. When she does, Harry looks at the three teacups on the tray as if he’s about to ask us to bring him one too. 

They said at school that Professor Binns used to do that: give the house elves long stares if they avoided him when serving food. Even after what happened, Harry’s expecting everything the way it was when he was alive. I guess this sort of unbroken routine must be important to ghosts. No wonder he looks so lost with Mum ignoring him like that. I gather my courage and smile at him apologetically.

He smiles back, like a distant relative left to his own devices at a noisy family gathering and thankful to be noticed again.

The baby kicks. Without even noticing, I rest my hands over my stomach. Harry blinks, and for the first time openly looks down at it.

“Can I?” he asks and points briefly at my belly. “Look, that is,” he adds, hurriedly.

“Course you can.” He’s still Harry, my brother’s best friend and my own silly girlhood crush. I’ve known him for ages and I’m not afraid of ghosts.

He looks down and lets out a small chuckle. “I didn’t mean to stare. Sorry, Ginny, it’s just so strange to see you.”

He leaves the last words unspoken, but even then I know exactly what he means. “Pregnant?” I finish the phrase for him.

“Yeah,” he replies. Then shakes his head: “No. Older. Grown up.”

Ah. That’s true as well. It’s strange to see him the same as ever.

He leans closer to my stomach, now that he has my permission, and closes his eyes. He’s clearly not looking, never getting close enough to touch, but it’s obvious that he’s doing something. Listening perhaps? Suddenly he lifts his head, startled. 

“What is it?”

“I just . . . nothing.” He shakes his head. “D’you know if it’s a boy or a girl yet? Only, I think I’ve figured it out which it is,” he explains shyly as a fascinated smile lights up his pale face.

“I don’t know. How d’you mean, you’ve figured it out?” I ask, intrigued, but he only shrugs and moves further away.

“Dunno. It’s different.” He glances at the end of our table, where Mum keeps questioning Professor Snape in her unsubtle way between crumpets or tea, and lowers his voice a little. “It’s like chalk and cheese. If I’m next to you and Snape, for example, even with my eyes closed, I’d tell you apart.”

“I should hope so. I don’t talk like him, do I?” I glance in his direction and give Harry a mock shudder.

“No,” he grins. “You’re both warm, see, but it’s a completely different sort of warm.” His eyebrows draw together and his forehead wrinkles as he tries to explain. “Remember the Greenhouses? All sunny and humid, with the scent of the plants growing everywhere around you. That’s how you or your Mum are.”

Harry was never good at explaining, but I suppose this is good enough. “So we’re the Greenhouses?”

“Don’t laugh!” he cries. “It’s the best I can do.” 

“Go on,” I nod and keep myself from chuckling at him. He’s so much like Harry used to be.

“OK, now remember the fireplace in the common room?” he asks again. “It’s warm, just like the Greenhouses, but at the same time it isn’t. It’s dry and smoky and the flames crackle and spit sparks at you if you sit too close. That’s how it feels. Different.”

“I see. Snape’s a fireplace.” I can’t help but tease him. “Does it have a cauldron?”

“Not like that,” he shakes his head. But instead of grinning like I’d expected, he looks sad. “He’s never that warm to me; he’s barely there, like a candle. I can’t even feel him unless I’m right next to him.”

From his words, it seems like he can truly tell the difference in whatever it is he senses. “And how does the baby feel?”

“Well, it’s like this…” he pauses. “Um, are you sure you don’t want it to be a surprise?”

“Yes.” I hate surprises. They’re rarely good. “Tell me.” 

He closes his eyes again and leans a bit closer. “Fireplace, definitely.”

A boy. It’s no surprise; I’ve been thinking it’d be a boy for a while now. But now I can start getting used to being ‘his’ mother without automatically correcting myself with the possibility of ‘her’.

“You aren’t mad I told you?” Harry sounds almost as concerned as Mum.

I shake my head. “No. It means I’ve guessed right. But knowing for sure makes it only half as hard to pick a name.”

He nods and stares blankly at my hands folded over my stomach. “Can I ask you something?”

“What?”

“Will you name him Ron?”

My breath stops. It feels as if I suddenly choked on my untouched tea and it scalded my lungs.

That’s the problem with ghosts haunting someone they used to know before their death. Ghosts seem harmless at first, trailing after the living and constantly asking: Remember? Remember? But they’ve got a knack for reopening old wounds, the kind that felt healed for ages beneath the scars. All they do is drag the living back into a past that should’ve been done with. I rub my eyes discreetly to conceal the moisture and do not look at Harry for a long, long time.

My lower back starts aching harder than usual and my limbs feel extremely heavy even though I am sitting down. I want to scream and break something, but instead I stare at our table with its constant bowl of oranges and Charlie’s latest letter. It has a collection of stamps on the envelope and the address is duplicated in another language below. Romanian. 

I will not think about what Harry asked.

Charlie hasn’t been in the country for a long time, but he always sends letters with the most colourful stamps. One of the stamps has a picture of a saint on a white horse slaying a dragon with a long, thin spear. He wrote to us last month that unless the storage catches fire, the dragon eggs can be kept unhatched for another few centuries. 

I will not think about Ron. I won’t.

There hasn’t been a live dragon in Romania for the last seven years. Dragons are magical creatures. Unlike us, they can’t survive without magic. It’s sad, but very fortunate for my brother. He wouldn’t be able to handle a full-grown beast with just a spear, like the saint on that Romanian stamp.

“Sorry,” Harry says.

I take a deep breath. “No, that’s all right,” I assure him.

I’m far from all right, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.

When Professor Snape finally goes away, leaving nothing more than the scrawled address of his current flat behind, I remain slumped in the chair. Mum closes the door after him and comes back to the table. She eyes our white crocheted tablecloth critically and starts picking at the tiny patches of cat fur sprinkled here and there, grey against the white. Riddle curls up on my lap and Tom reaches across my chest to rub his face against my own. “Down, Tom,” I say and Mum frowns at the name, still, after all this time. 

“Names only have power if you let them,” I tell her. It’s a never-ending argument between us. I could’ve given my pets some normal, ordinary cat names, but it’s a small rebellion against Mum, in a way I still can manage without making her too unhappy. We both know it, yet she still tries to rename the mangy beasts whenever she sees them. 

I grab an orange from the bowl on the table and start peeling it. When it’s done, I divide it into pieces and bite into them one by one, sprinkling salt on every raw slice bleeding sticky and acidic liquid all over my fingers. Lately, I’ve started liking their strong citrus taste with a dash of salt. 

Mum eyes me, disapproving of my making a mess of the table, but she doesn’t say anything, only stacks the remaining six oranges in a bowl, balancing them one on top of the other. The stack falls apart anyway; the bowl is too small for them but Mum still keeps on trying.

It’s so like Mum to do that and I’ll always admire her for never giving up, but I don’t want to turn into her a few years down the line: struggling to keep my own family together, pushing them and preventing them from tumbling apart like these oranges in a bowl or collapsing altogether like our Burrow. It’s a never-ending battle, one we cannot win.

My mother is wrong. This baby can’t make everything right again in our lives, it’ll only make them more complicated.

She stops arranging her oranges and sits down, arms hanging limply over her lap. 

“So, what did you think?” I ask her, knowing she has something to say about her long talk with my former professor.

She’s been waiting for me to ask the question, it seems. “Poor man! As if he didn’t have enough troubles like the rest of us, he’s got that ghost haunting him.” She shakes her head. “He refuses to get rid of it. It’s not going to end well.”

I don’t argue with her, but ghosts shouldn’t be fretted about or feared; they’re part of the world just like everything else. Good-natured or evil, they’re only as strong as our memories of their past; they have no power as long as we remember that they aren’t truly alive. Given time, the shadows of the past stop touching us, not because we forget them, but because we survived and they did not and we have to go on living.

We mightn’t have our magic and we mightn’t be together anymore, but we’re still Weasleys. We’re still strong enough to go on.

It’s the way our world is now, and I don’t blame anyone for making it so. Only Voldemort.

  
*

I leave Molly’s flat, as stripes of grey fog dim the red disk of the setting sun. On the ground level the long shadows from the towers already stretch toward streets lit up only by electrical devices. One half of the sky is heavy with clouds; the other is bright but has no stars. It’s about to rain. I hurry home and Harry, silent and sombre, hurries after me, flickering like a blurred shadow on the wall, a dancing patch of darkness in a space lit by a single candle.

He curls up in the corner of my room as soon as I enter. I hesitate, wondering if I should do something for him or let this brooding run its course. In the end I light several candles and leave Potter alone with only an occasional glance in his direction to make sure that he is still here. There is something about the candles that makes his form grow more definite. I’ve noticed that he doesn’t like the empty, unlit corners at night. And when a candle is in the room he often floats closer to it, just like a moth, attracted perhaps by subtle currents of light and heated air. I don’t think he even realises that he’s drawn to it.

I always buy the thin and inexpensive sticks of sallow wax that put out just enough light and plenty of smoke. If there are several candles lit in the room, oftentimes, Harry glides from one to another soaking up their yellow glow, wreathed in their thin ribbons of grey smoke, as if their light or their heat are sources of strength that he desperately needs to survive. 

I worry about him.

I worry that there’ll be a time when the candles won’t be enough to sustain his needs, that he won’t survive the next blow that reality deals him. What will happen then? Will he fade away? Or will I have to pull him from behind a dream cupboard door again, lost and quiet and ten years younger?

Is Molly right after all? Am I truly mad for caring? I attempted to tell her the story of how Harry came to be here, of all the things he wanted and all the things he told me about. She couldn’t see why I didn’t just get rid of the ghost to begin with, as if he were some piece of rubbish; and nothing I said helped her empathise with my reluctance. Understandably so, perhaps. She isn’t the one who was rescued from the jaws of a nightmare and taken on a tour of a castle built of memories and dreams. She isn’t the one who broke his naïve, grandiose illusions and made him realise that magic was truly gone. She isn’t the one who sacrificed a perfectly good chess set to the need to remind him that he isn’t helpless. 

Perhaps I am getting too involved in this. In him.

In the kitchen, the chess pieces are still scattered in the corners of the floor, and my whiskey bottle still sits on the table where I left it this morning. It gleams under the lights of the opposite building shining through the rain-speckled windowpanes. Dapples of light and dark are splashed across the walls and ceiling, and a long, faint shadow grows from the bottle. The black bishop is still upside-down in its open neck.

What am I going to do?

I’ve always thought that if there were a proper place for young Potter when he was alive, it would be among the Weasleys, in their loud and cluttered home. The noisy and boisterous relations of his best friend would’ve taught him everything they knew about the burdens and joys of a large family. I would have thought that, even now, they would have done him some good. Molly’s youngest child had enough experience with the opposite horrors of her brothers and of Voldemort that she should have been able to scold some sense into Potter’s stubborn head.

Funny how life doesn’t go according to plan, any more than it goes according to my wishes. Instead, Potter’s friend is gone, Molly doesn’t trust him, and Ginevra Weasley doesn’t need him. She is too strong to need anyone right now. So by some twist of fate he is at my side, and it seems that I am the only one to care whether he stays or leaves.

If only he’d survived. If only. Ah, but life is such a callous bitch, lining us up like pawns and urging us forward with the promise of glory just six steps away past the enemy line. I need a drink just thinking about it, but Albus warned me not to grow attached to spirits, and Potter stoppered the bottle.

I hide the bottle, a needless temptation, out of sight under the table, and leave the bishop in it as a reminder for the next time my hand reaches down searching for an easy way out.

If I ever need another black bishop, I’ll just take a leaf out of Albus Dumbledore’s book and turn a pawn into one, the first one out of the group to reach its destination intact in six simple but oh so hard-to-survive moves. It is, after all, the story of my life.

  
*

He’s there in the dark, with the slowly unfurling smoke from the blown out candles seeping through his huddled form.

It’s a routine we don’t acknowledge. He creeps into the room when I’m about to fall asleep and remains on the floor a few steps from my bed. He stays there all night long from what I can tell, always facing away from me, silent and still. As I awaken at dawn he disappears into the kitchen. He never mentions it and I never ask him why, just as I don’t ask why he deems it necessary to continue his routine of keeping my nightmares at bay.

I don’t expect this night to be any different, so when I first hear his voice on the brink of sleep and consciousness I cannot decide if he’s addressing me from a dream or in reality.

“Are you asleep?”

Useless question. It’s not as if he could ever expect me to say ‘yes’. It’s not as if it even matters, what with his ability to enter my dreams. Simply thinking through all the flaws in his reasoning forces me to wake up completely. “What is it?”

“Do you ever wonder if I’m mad?” Harry asks from a distance. “Or if you’re just imagining me?” he adds in a near-whisper.

It seems that he’s been asking himself the same questions I did. But at least I didn’t have to question my very existence. “No. You’re sane. Saner than most,” I tell him in what is hopefully a convincing tone.

“It’s just,” I notice his hesitant voice moving a bit closer, “I heard what Mrs. Weasley said.”

Of course he did. It was very careless of her. Invisible doesn’t mean absent: he proved that time and again, even when he was alive. Apparently she never had to take on the unwelcome chore of summoning the invisibility cloak away from the uninvited visitor and scolding him for spying on Order members in my home. And now, because of her prying commentary, I am left with explaining the old wizarding prejudices to Harry. “Some people do not like to be reminded of the past.” I give him what must be a centuries-old excuse. “It’s nothing personal.”

“Why did they treat me like that?”

“You’re a ghost, that’s the way all old wizarding families treat them.”

“Not at Hogwarts.”

“No.” The Hogwarts ghosts didn’t have anyone around who would have known them in life. “They didn’t haunt a person, they haunted a place. Besides, they were old, centuries older than you.” I wouldn’t wish their fate on anyone. For his sake, I hope that he never ends up in such a state, going from day to day, like Binns or even the Bloody Baron, cut adrift from reality, not even keeping track of passing time. 

“They didn’t think I was real, even Ginny.” I hear his voice falter at the end, disguised by a deliberate change of tone, and think of him sitting next to Molly’s daughter, awkward and out of place: someone who’d never grow older alongside someone who already had.

“Don’t be angry, it’s not their fault,” I counsel. Unlike this morning, anger wouldn’t do him any good now.

“I’m not,” he reassures. “It’s just frustrating. It all is. This wasn’t the way Ginny should see Muggle London, not the way I imagined it at least. Ron and I would’ve taken her shopping and to the museums, and even to Waterloo bridge.”

I bite back a cutting comment about her not being so lenient at the sight of him leaping into the Thames, and let him speak instead.

“Her father was supposed to tag along and ask silly questions about Muggles and their strange ways,” he continues, “and Mrs. Weasley would’ve waited for us to return home to the Burrow. It was supposed to be a bright and happy day. Not this.”

“She is a strong woman; she’s survived this far, hasn’t she?”

“I suppose, but she was a year younger than me, Ron’s little sister, and now she’s all grown up and . . . ”

“Expecting a child. You can say it without flinching, Potter.”

“Yeah, and that too,” he agrees, looking rather lost. “It’s strange to see people I went to school with having children. How did you deal with it, Snape?”

How did I ever? “It was a tremendous challenge.”

“Really?” he asks, as if to him it produced no challenge at all.

“Yes. Day after day I had to watch the children surpass the idiocies their parents had committed in their time.” I suppose it could have been much worse. Black might have managed to reproduce, or Longbottom might have been triplets, or Potter might have failed to persuade the Hat like the rumours claimed and been sorted into my own House.

“Oh,” he says, probably not even realising how much he contributed to my yearly torture. “I should’ve known you’d say that.”

“Indeed.” He should have.

“It doesn’t seem so bad now,” he announces, more cheerful than before, after a long pause. “Besides, Ginny’s always been really sensible, and any kid of hers will be great. I hope she’ll name him after Ron.”

There is something remarkable and odd about names, these essential human possessions of no substance or form. “I’ll name him after my father,” Draco’s voice and another name echoes in my mind. It still feels as though he doesn’t have any right to give that name away to a child after it belonged for so long to someone else. I suspect that there’ll be plenty of children with second-hand names and a long family legacy to uphold from now on. It’s a sign of our times. 

“She will,” I assure him, “as soon as she gets used to the idea of that name not belonging solely to her brother.” That might take much longer than Potter expects.

“There’s something else,” he starts reluctantly as if confessing some dark secret. “I know this might sound daft, but will you try to believe me?”

“I’ll do my best.” How much more insane can this be?

“I felt something when I talked to Ginny.”

“Fireplaces and greenhouses, I presume,” I ask when Harry’s awkward conversation comes to mind.

“Not that!” he exclaims with a hint of embarrassment.

Of course not. “I know. Go on.”

“The baby. He didn’t feel like anyone I’ve been around,” he says and already seems hesitant about saying the rest. “You see, when I’m near someone I get these sensations.”

I think I know what he is trying to say. I wonder if it’s the same thing that I’ve waited for, and at the same time feared, for several years now. Many times I’ve tossed and turned in this bed unable to sleep, wondering what went wrong, and thinking of countless possible futures before settling on the most plausible one. Could this be it? 

“It always feels warm when I’m close to someone,” he explains hurriedly. “And it’s like food used to be. Like sun on a plant. I’ve got to have it or I can’t move, can’t do anything without warming up again. And I can’t stay alone for too long because it’s so bloody freezing.”

He is a ghost, and the ghosts are drawn to the living. Perhaps it takes a ghost’s eye, a phantom sense to notice something essential about a living person that we aren’t able to see for ourselves. 

“I think I know what it is but I’m not sure,” he says. “I can’t be, and you’ll probably think I’m nuts.” 

His voice moves through the pitch-dark room and I can’t quite pinpoint its location. Is he pacing? If so, how does he do it in the dark? Does he glide blindly from wall to wall or can he see better than I in the gloom? Were he alive, I would’ve tracked his movements by the pattern of sighs and footsteps, but it’s impossible to track a soundless phantom. The only link is his voice inside my head, the voice which gets closer and closer and then suddenly stops advancing.

“He just… he felt complete compared to everyone else.”

_Complete_. If there is one thing worse than the loss of magical energy in our generation of wizards-turned-squibs, this would be it. If there is one thing with the potential to save us all, but with the even greater potential to ruin us, this would be it as well. It’s the way the world works: the greatest of our hopes can cause the world to end instead of bringing the expected salvation.

“No one else in the room had it but the baby did,” Harry says with the utmost conviction. “And it was strong and steady and it felt a lot like . . .”

“Magic.” How can it be? But how can it not?

“Yes!” he cries, relieved and frightened at once, a prophet saved from foretelling the end of the world because a wild guess from the crowd did it for him. “Do you think I’m crazy?”

“No.” In fact, it’s surprising how easy it is to explain. The rules of heredity do not change after every man-made disaster. Removing the teeth from a pair of serpents doesn’t mean their hatchlings would lack fangs. A squib is just as capable of giving birth to a magical child as a witch or even a Muggle woman with the right ancestors. It’s simple, yet so complicated. “How did you know?”

“I just told you, I felt it,” he insists. Frustration rings in his voice.

He felt something, but he’s never had a chance to be around anyone with magic since he died. “Guessing and knowing are two different things. There can be dozens of plausible explanations for what you’ve felt.”

“The baby has something, Snape,” he protests. “Everyone else around me doesn’t. You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“But listen,” habitually he tries to argue at first. When the meaning of the word finally sinks in, he only manages a shocked “You do?”

Actually, I do believe him in this. “Tomorrow we’ll go back. And then we’ll know for certain.” 

“How? Really?!”

“Of course, ‘really’. Good night.” 

“Wait,” he persists, and will probably keep asking questions all night if I don’t silence him now.

“Good night, Potter,” I repeat with more force.

It takes me hours to fall asleep, and when I do, it seems that only a moment had passed between now and morning.

  
*

“No one. Nobody,” Ginevra Weasley replies sharply.

“Miss Weasley, I wouldn’t ask unless this was important,” I tell her before she responds with something much harsher and Molly descends on me like a mother hen protecting her last chick. Persuading her to talk has been no easier than hunting down the last existing Veritaserum would have been.

She keeps staring at the bowl of oranges sitting on the table. Harry gives me a disapproving glance but keeps quiet, and so do I, waiting for her to give in.

“Fine,” she spits out. “He’s from Glasgow. He used to help the twins at the shop. Obviously not any more since Gred’n’Forge nearly killed the bastard.” A disapproving ‘tut’ sounds from the kitchen but she only shakes her head. “It’s all right, Mum. He was barely seventeen and I was stupid. It would’ve never worked out.”

“Was he a Muggle?” I ask her then and take a deep breath. My pulse is pounding in my temples and my hands are about to shake. I need to calm down.

She looks surprised. “Course he was. Everyone’s a Muggle now, aren’t they?”

“Are you certain he wasn’t a wizard?”

She shrugs and looks at me as if I’ve suddenly grown two heads. “If he ever pulled an actual rabbit out of a hat or even managed his card tricks right, I would’ve been the first to notice. He was just a silly boy, obsessed with everything ‘magical’ and mysterious. But he was no more magical than anyone else these days.”

Behind Ginevra’s back, Harry glances down pointedly: tell her already. Whatever it is that the baby possesses, Potter still feels it, I’m sure of it. He would have told me otherwise, and even if not, if he felt something was wrong, he never would have managed to hide it well enough. I’ve been watching him out of the corner of my eye. He looks impatient, but I’ve seen no signs of sudden disappointment or regret.

Ginevra catches Harry’s glance. When she turns to me the surprise in her face has become suspicion. “Why d’you need to know?”

Because I’d rather find out at once if this maybe-magic ended up here by other means, before Potter convinces himself completely of the most optimistic reason imaginable. If he’s wrong, it will only lead to disappointment later. “You’ll see. Hold this.”

She seems taken aback by the item I am offering her. “What for?” Carefully she takes my wand, grasping the darkened handle in an almost intuitive gesture, safely keeping it pointing up; it hasn’t yet been long enough for her to forget the old habits.

I briefly consider snatching my wand back, pocketing it, and walking out the door. Potter had better be right about what he told me. If this turns out to be a dead end, I’ll dream up his blasted cupboard and lock him in there myself. 

“Just try it out. Say something.”

“This is silly. _Lumos_,” she says and gives it a casual wave. “But why?”

I take a deep breath and can’t take my eyes off the wand in her hands. For days I repeated that incantation, staring at the tip of my wand until I strained my eyes, searching for the smallest spark of light. Every time I saw nothing. I notice Ginevra’s confused, questioning face and hope that I do not sound too much of a madman: “Because Potter believes that your child has magical ability, and it’s the fastest way to verify . . .

A bright flash flickers at the tip, something that wasn’t there just a second ago.

. . . that.” 

It must be an illusion, a deception, or a trick. Any minute now it will vanish. A thing of such importance simply can’t appear out of the blue and mean what it does.

It flares brighter and turns steady.

Ginevra blinks and stares at that flicker of light with a bewildered expression, believing and non-believing all at once. Her face turns almost as white as Potter’s under the wand’s glow, highlighting the faint scattering of freckles around her panicked eyes. She looks up at Harry and then looks down at her own stomach, gaping at it as if it had grown there in that instant. 

Behind her Molly stops completely still in the kitchen doorway with her eyes fixed on her daughter. The teapot drops from her hands and I expect a crash of broken china and a scalding splash of tea, but instead there are none, and the teapot hovers inches above the floor at her feet, like a shiny buoy with sunflowers on the side. 

She brought that teapot from the Burrow, I recall from yesterday’s conversation: a common magical teapot that’s always clean, always keeps the tea hot, and is enchanted to prevent itself from breaking. Its protection spells must have held all this time.

The light at the tip of the wand in Ginevra’s hands winks out and when she opens her palm I notice an angry red scorch mark where the wand handle touched. It must hurt quite a bit but she seems not to notice the pain, just casually examines the burn and the wand that caused it, as if sore, inflamed skin is a normal side effect of _Lumos_.

“A birch wand,” she finally says. “Mine used to be willow. Is it yours, Professor?”

Silently I nod. 

She carefully traces the burn with the fingers of other hand. “S’not so bad. At least it works.” She speaks the last word and her eyes turn wild again at the comprehension of what she just said. “It WORKS! Bloody hell!”

I look past her to meet Harry’s eyes: as if her outcry were a signal, a beam of hope lights up Harry’s whole face. 

“Just look at this, Mum, your grandson’s a wizard!” Ginevra calls out to the empty teapot hovering in the kitchen doorway. And Molly appears instead, from behind the curtain stretched across the corner of their living room, holding a thin object with something akin to reverence. She regards her daughter with the same awed expression, and places a second wand, long and dark with a reddish shine, into her hand.

“Give this one a try,” she says.

Ginevra sets my wand aside and looks at the other in her hands. She runs her fingers across the ridge of the handle all the way up the thin, flexible tip. “Dad’s?” she asks looking up at her mother and her voice doesn’t quite manage to keep steady at the question.

Molly nods, the kind of desperate motion that people make when they don’t trust themselves to speak.

“I didn’t know you kept it,” she murmurs, holding it as cautiously as if it isn’t made of wood but glass, a delicate, brittle, and precious thing.

She traces a curve with it, as if writing something in the air, and nothing happens at first. Then the teapot hovering in the doorway starts moving, first slowly and then faster and faster. It rises past me above the table, does an unexpected somersault right above the oranges and spins before settling on the table top like an ordinary piece of china. “Whoa, I didn’t do that!” Ginevra cries, palming her stomach in surprise. “He kicked. And the charm went all wonky.”

Molly smiles then and years disappear from her round face. “That’s nothing, dear. When I was pregnant with you, the most common spells could turn all the chairs in the house upside down or my hair blonde for a week. Merlin, what a menace I was.” She gives her daughter a misleadingly innocent look. Take away the prominent laugh lines at the corners of her mouth and the shadows under her eyes, and for a moment she’s little Molly Prewett all over again, with her freckled face and her punch like a beater’s bat that dealt with any rivals almost as well as the two towering figures of Gideon and Fabian always looming in the background. Molly hasn’t changed that much after all from the schoolgirl I remember, a younger sister to the two bullies who were much more socially acceptable simply because they happened to sort into the right House.

“You do realise you are not to try this in public,” Molly declares sternly. “Why, a simple levitation spell could give our neighbours a heart attack.”

Ginny nods, her mind clearly considering all the possibilities, practical and not.

“But,” her mother continues with her delighted, girlish grin shining through, “I suppose I could use your help in the kitchen with that.”

A worrisome thought nags at the back of my mind, one that refuses to let go. “Would the Muggle officials be likely to notice this?” I interrupt them.

“We haven’t heard from them for years,” Molly reassures me. “Not since they took our two wands, wrapped them in plastic as if they were last week’s fish, and carted them away. Haven’t seen hide nor hair of them since.”

Her assertion doesn’t dispel all of my worries, but it helps. The officials didn’t look very far, I notice. Molly’s teapot huffs and puffs on the table and the giant clock hanging on the far wall defies every law of Muggle clockwork, and only Molly knows how many magical knickknacks and gewgaws she has tucked away in this place of hers.

“It hasn’t been working right since the move,” Ginevra comments offhandedly when she notices me looking at the clock with its multiple hands pointing at the assortment of situations. “Ron’s has been jumping all over the place and the twins’ have sat on ‘Innocent’ for years.” 

I take a closer look at the clock’s hands, all nine of them, each with a name and a face. There are a few of them still at ‘Mortal Peril’; I suspect that they’ve been frozen immovably like that for years. The Weasley twins’ hands are indeed proclaiming their innocence. Molly’s hand indicates that she is ‘Home’. There is also Charlie’s, pointing at ‘Abroad’ and a small but ornate hand labelled ‘Ginny’ directed at ‘Happy’. Through it all, another hand wavers round and round, like a broken compass needle unable to find north, obscuring the view of its counterparts with its wild rotation. This one must be Ronald Weasley’s.

If they name the child Ron, like Harry asked, would that hand finally stop spinning? It’s hard to tell. Some part of me will always think that we should never hope to replace the people we lost with someone else, but something else inside me also says that the hand has been left for too long without resolution. Its whirl-pause-whirl, this way and that, reminds me too much of my own loss, and of restless dreams where I search hither and yon without cease, frantic always to find my Lucius.

  
*

Molly corners me before I leave and slips a folded piece of paper into my pocket. “Here,” she whispers while Harry is still distracted by the sight of her daughter levitating a ribbon just out of her cats’ reach. “Take this before I change my mind, and take him there sometime.”

“What is it?” I mutter as her gaze drifts away.

“You’ll see, later.”

I unfold it only when we are outside. It’s an address in Reading: the street and the number in Molly’s steady, rounded handwriting. There is a name on the bottom, a name I remember all too well from countless papers I’ve marked over the years, from records on the inside cover of library books, from labels on potion vials that I’ve examined and have always found adequately flawless. I hide it away like some precious possession inside my coat pocket next to my reclaimed wand; a scrap of paper that contains just a few lines: Hermione Granger’s name and address.

“What was it?” Harry asks, skipping over the stones on the footpath.

“Nothing to dance about,” I tell him.

He makes a face at that. “You’re too uptight about things, Snape. Relax. Live a little.”

He runs through the air, looks up and spins, ready to fly: a house martin, slim and swift and exuberant, poised to soar and never touch the ground again. 

I will not show him the note right away. Joy is sparse in this world and we need to draw it out, make it last through the storms and the bleakness. We need to savour every bit of it before it’s gone. We need to keep it safe and make it count.

No, I will not show him the note just yet.

He is content now that he has found hope again, hope in magic and hope in humanity. This newfound hope of his is also an enormous responsibility resting on the shoulders of a young woman who lives in her orange tower with stray cats and stray magical objects not so far from the World’s End. It’s ironic that the place where I lost hope is so close to the place where Harry just found his. 

He believes that everything will be right with the world. It makes him happy. I cannot allow myself to convince him otherwise, never again.

Delighted, Harry rushes forward onto the noisy, sun drenched streets and I have no choice but to follow.

Yes, Molly, I do believe in ghosts, or in this one at least, and if that is insanity, so be it. 

 

  
\---------------------------

Below are a few links I've collected while writing this chapter.

The noisy, crowded streets that Severus has to walk through can be seen on the [Tottenham Court Road panorama at Urban75.com](http://www.urban75.org/vista/tottenham.html) and on [another panorama with the corner of Euston Road and TCR,](http://www.urban75.org/vista/euston.html) just to give you an idea.

Here is [Tavistock Square](http://www.urban75.org/vista/tavistock.html), "where the trees sprout new leaves overhead and the fresh scent of grass fills the still cold air." 

The panorama of [Lincoln's Inn Fields](http://www.urban75.org/vista/lincolnsinn.html) can be viewed here. ("I cross Kings Way and turn left onto a much quieter footpath laid with old brick. I walk into the square surrounded by dark Georgian houses, arriving in the echoing footsteps of countless wizards or Muggles, who came to this place in the past.") And here is [another image of the Fields.](http://www.maa.org/england/5_22_British_Library_and_British_Museum/images/image007.jpg)

[Waterloo Bridge panorama](http://www.urban75.org/vista/waterloo1.html) is a perfect shot that even matches the season and time of the day. This is where Snape remembers "a different bridge over the same river" and where Harry jumps off the railing. Also, here is [another view of the bridge](http://www.urban75.org/vista/waterloo.html), this time from the south side. And [near the bridge](http://www.urban75.org/vista/critical.html) are all the crowds that Snape despises so.

Here is [The Strand](http://www.urban75.org/vista/strand.html) without the Subway in the picture, but with Starbucks Coffee instead. For those who are curious, yes, there is a Subway in that area.

[Cheshire Cheese](http://www.yeoldecheshirecheese.com/) has it's own website with several good photos and is also featured [on pubs.com](http://www.pubs.com/chesec4.htm). [Here](http://www.yeoldecheshirecheese.com/Preview/Restaurants.htm) is the photo of the room that Snape and Harry entered. ("Although quiet, this place seems to be waiting for something.") [This](http://www.yeoldecheshirecheese.com/Preview/choprestau.htm) is another view of it from a different angle. [And here](http://www.yeoldecheshirecheese.com/Preview/restaurantmenu.htm) is the menu for the Cheshire Cheese.

Russell Square isn't mentioned in this chapter, but see if you can spot Bobby the waiter (or at least the guy who inspired his appearance) among the people on [this panorama](http://www.urban75.org/vista/russell.html).

Ampthill Square Estate unfortunately doesn't have any photos online but the online search brings up several rather interesting articles in relation to housing issues. It doesn't seem like the best area to live in but the rent is cheap.


	4. Smoke and Mirrors

It is nine fifty-five a.m. I said my farewell to Albus over an hour ago. The clouds are already gathering over the empty village. It’ll start to rain soon. Perhaps this place will seem less abandoned then; the raindrops will wash the grime from the empty windowpanes, and bring sound to the silent cobblestones of the high street.

I suppose it’s as good a place and time as any for me to die.

I wonder if I’ll see the rain?

Nine fifty-six.

I haven’t checked the time, but ever since I Apparated to Hogsmeade, an internal clock began to tick, inescapable as the pulse pounding inside my skull and in my left arm, measuring every last wasted second: a countdown to the end.

I know exactly what I have to do. If Dumbledore’s Chosen One fails, I must finish what he began. Or die trying, most likely. I’m not as delusional as Potter, to think that I’ll stand any chance of killing the Dark Lord, but I’ll attempt it anyway. Why not? One way or the other, I’m dead.

Even if Potter’s famous luck at surviving the odds doesn’t run out today and he does somehow succeed in Dumbledore’s insane mission, it will truly be over: for me, as for so many others. Even if the ‘Light’ wins, I won’t survive: not with my Mark chaining me to the Dark Lord, like all the rest of the Death Eaters. I’m aware of the Mark as seldom before - throbbing under my skin, in my bones, coiling in my blood - and for a moment I picture it as it truly is: only one among hundreds of intricate spell links stretching across our world, like lifelines about to be cut. 

Nine fifty-eight.

“Have you found a way?” I asked Dumbledore this morning. Any way, any solution, any means to improve his last extravagant plan in a manner that won’t require my death whatever the outcome of the battle.

I didn’t even have to finish the sentence before he told me the usual, the inevitable. “I’m truly sorry, my boy. Believe me. Now, if you are prepared . . .”

My reverie is shattered as I clutch at my burning Mark; I almost double over at the stab of agony from the summons I am overdue to answer. How can anyone prepare for this? 

Ten o’clock.

I am not ready. How could I ever be? I am not prepared to lose Lucius. I am not prepared to die, with Lucius or without him. Yet if Potter succeeds, the Dark Lord will drag us all down with him into death; and if Potter fails, the results will be too terrible to imagine. I’ve worked toward this moment for more than half my life, and in all that time I have had no choice. I knew that in the end it would come to this: to personally betraying the only one I hold dear. 

I’m so sorry, Luce; I planned your murder in sound mind and carried it out with steady hand, starting from the very first moment I agreed to Dumbledore’s terms, all those years ago. 

Five after ten.

I find Lucius by the last house on the high street. It’s perched near the edge of the town, and only the remains of wards keep its shattered walls from falling apart completely. Lucius stands tall in its jagged shadow. Fine silver strands stray from underneath his mask and fly on the breeze. A silver clasp with two entwined serpents shines on his shoulder against his black velvet cloak. He gazes out onto the road leading to Hogwarts, undoubtedly planning his next conquest. In the narrow slits of the featureless mask, his grey eyes burn with the conqueror’s ancient passion to take and to own, to stand on the tallest tower of the castle and look down upon the world proclaiming his victory. 

What can I say to someone who will most likely be dead before the day ends; who will die because of my own actions? Words would never be enough, not if I had forever to say them. I take a step closer, then another, and join him in the shadow. There’s no escape for us, my friend. Forgive me, Luce. _Proschai ee prosti._ “. . .Lucius.”

“They’ve been at it since you arrived,” he replies without turning; standing with his back to me, his attention fixed on the distant clearing where the road curves and disappears behind a low hill. “If it were my choice, I’d crush the brat beneath an army. But the Dark Lord is determined to kill him personally.”

“Any sign of . . .” – Damage? Defeat? Unexpected resolution? Any sign of hope? – “. . . change?”

“No, but he should start screaming for mercy any moment now. Arrogant pest,” Lucius declares with the relentless conviction of someone who always chooses the winning side. The possibility of our Lord doing the screaming has never crossed his mind.

At last, with an impatient sigh, he turns away from his vigil. “Did you know that Narcissa went to Gringotts? She’s taking the gold, fleeing the country,” he says with a low, mocking laugh. “She doesn’t understand. But you do, Severus. We can’t just walk away from this. We never could.”

Just like the Lucius I remember: so sure of himself, of his victories. My gaze drifts down the empty high street, past blank window frames and open doors and the apple tree, still standing, still white with blossom fragile as old lace, amid the destruction. On the side of the road by the Hog’s Head lies the corpse of an old man who aimed his wand at the Dark Lord when we first invaded. The Lestranges got him before he fired his first hex. 

“Have you even considered the possibility that we might be dead before tonight?” I ask him.

Lucius raises his white mask revealing an equally pale, aristocratic face. His thin lips curl up faintly in a smile, enigmatic and confident, as if Lucius knows a sure way to win the game, no matter what cards life deals him. “Tsk. Severus. It seems not so long ago that you said you’d follow me until the end of the world. And now you are ready to give up?”

Give up? I’ve given up my fruitless attempts to sway Lucius off his chosen path long ago. “It _is_ the end of the world. It’s over.”

“Have you been listening to Dumbledore’s ravings for so long that they have clouded your judgement?” he scoffs. “Trust me in this. You have nothing to fear.”

“I’m not afraid to die.” It’s not me that I am worried about. My fate was decided long ago. I’ve been living on borrowed time ever since Dumbledore allowed me to descend unharmed into the Hogwarts dungeons from his office. 

“Nonsense,” Lucius chides, “We are winning!” His voice rings with his usual infectious confidence. “Today will be our greatest victory.”

Why have you always had to win and claim and conquer, Luce, ever since we were children? “You aren’t listening to me!”

“You’re the one who’s not listening,” he declares, belief burning like molten silver in his eyes. “You’re going to live, my friend. Would I have ever inducted you into our Order otherwise? Have more faith in me than this.”

“Shouldn’t we back him up, sir?” someone calls from inside a nearby building.

“Silence! The Dark Lord requires his victory, on his terms.” Lucius shouts back. “Our orders were clear: We are to wait here as Our Lord commanded.”

How is it, Luce, that with all your will and ambition, all your passion for conquest and dominion, you never realised that the Dark Lord defeated you years ago? He will not defeat me as well. 

“For what it’s worth,” I tell him softly, “I’m glad that I’m here, with you.” I cannot think of anyone else I’d rather be with on this last day. 

Lucius’ gaze trails over the dark figures waiting inside the buildings and along the tumbled walls, pauses on the clearing in the distance, before coming to rest on my own masked face. For a long time he is quiet, until at last he speaks into the silence between us. “As am I.”

Then he reaches out, his hand slipping under the edge of my hood, and slowly, carefully pulls my mask off. “There, Severus, much better.”

“What are you doing?” I ask, stunned, my gaze flicking from my mask in his hand, to his slumped posture which lowers his face to the same level as mine, to his wide-open eyes and his thin mouth and refined features.

“This.” 

A flash, green as grass and lightning-bright, flares from the direction of the clearing and Lucius whirls to stare in that direction. When he glances back, his eyes are alarmed and furious. His elegant fingers claw at his shoulder, finally tearing the serpent clasp free. “Here.” 

I can barely hear the word over the thunder-rumble of an explosion in the distance. “Luce?” What is it?

“Get Ciss and Draco! Go!” he cries and shoves me away, his cloak all askew and my mask still in his hand.

Lucius’ face has lost his usual composed expression. He’s livid and vulnerable, so full of passion and so close to fury, as his fingers, ice-cold, press his silver clasp into my palm.

Then at ten twenty-nine the activated portkey rips me away from Hogsmeade in a whirl of endless white and a confusing rush of images and sensations.

  
_Proschai ee prosti_ (Rus.) – Forgive and farewell.

  
*

Across from Borgin and Burkes, I look around frantically, more thankful with each passing moment that Lucius took my mask. These days, even at Knockturn, famous for its Dark Arts shops, a masked Death Eater wouldn’t survive any longer than an Auror in full uniform would, if they’d ever dared to walk these streets. It would take mere seconds for some disgruntled soul to aim a wand and mutter a single curse from behind this display of shrunken heads or that cage of spiders in a store window.

Blue patches of sky shine above the tall, uneven roofs, reflecting in the store fronts and the small, dimmed windows of the upper floors. Unlike in Hogsmeade, there’ll be no rain here today.

Where is Lucius? What was he thinking, sending me away from the battle like this? Why? Is he thinking at all? Normally I have at least some idea of his plans.

My first impulse is to Apparate back to Hogsmeade. 

Then a bomb goes off. 

Proximity means the blast hits me with a full-body impact as well as an earth-shaking roar. And then the world is piercingly, painfully silent. Didn’t I warn Avery and Goyle not to use so much gunpowder in their experiments? There had to be enough in that single blast to obliterate the entire street!

I am dizzy, disoriented; everything else seems to happen in flashes: much like Legilimency visions, fragmented and random, which I have to put together into a greater whole, and hope that whatever message those pieces carry is not deciphered too late.

It is only when I reach Diagon Alley that I ache with the sudden sense that everything has gone hideously wrong.

Why didn’t Luce go after his wife and son himself? I’ll never forgive him if he simply realised that yet another tactical move of his troops might affect Narcissa’s well-being and sent me to nursemaid her.

I hurry past the Diagon store fronts and the milling, shaken crowds. 

With an icepick-sharp stab of pain, pressure pops in my inner ears and my hearing begins to return. I catch the screams of the crowd and the faint murmur of the Wizarding Wirelesses blaring from each store front. For the past month the store owners all over Diagon have been leaving their radios by the open doors, to attract the passers-by with the most recent war bulletin.

The clamour all around me grows louder by the second. This might be more serious than I thought at first, judging from the shocked faces in the crowd. 

I draw my wand and break into a run. 

Distant screams grow stronger as I get closer to Gringotts. This couldn’t have been the Death Eaters’ doing. Even Goyle isn’t foolish enough to target the bank with all its security wards.

The radio signal from the nearest store front amplifies suddenly and then turns to static noise. It’s not only this one, I realise. One after the other all the way down the street, all of the Wizarding Wirelesses suddenly start transmitting rising waves of static that slowly drown out everything else.

But that ceases to concern me in seconds. I notice something much more disturbing ahead.

Gringotts is gone. 

I run closer to that shocking patch of space where the building once stood, breathing in a rising cloud of grit that veils the entire block. Dimly through the dust I see a giant pit covered with rubble, an angry mouth with jagged edges, in place of the imposing fortress. It’s as if the ground itself rose up and swallowed the entire building whole. Clouds of dust and smoke boil up from the pit.

It couldn’t have been a bomb. No mere bomb could shatter the strongest wards in Diagon Alley.

Narcissa.

Merlin, I hope she’s already at the Manor. Luce will never forgive himself if something’s happened to her.

“God save us,” I distinguish from the screams and the noise. “No one could’ve survived it. Not even a warning to Apparate out.”

“Help me,” a woman shrieks and grabs my elbow. “I can’t levitate this alone!” I step away from her and push and shove my way against the gathering crowds into the nearest store entrance.

One of the walls had collapsed and I distinguish a figure underneath all the rubble and hear a faint attempt at _Leviosa_. Fortunately the fireplace is on the opposite wall, relatively unharmed. I grab a handful of powder from the jar on the mantel and toss it into the flames. They remain orange. I try another handful. The same.

“Get a better batch of floo powder if you hope to continue your business here,” I snarl at the hapless owner, and, after taking a second look, levitate the largest chunk of rubble away from him. He drops his wand and starts pushing his way out manually, giving me an incredulous stare. I do not linger inside to see if he gets out.

What is happening? Is this the Dark Lord’s doing? Why didn’t I hear anything beforehand? I’m missing something. Something important. A cold wave of fear crashes down, hammering my chest and twisting in my gut. 

Wait. Think!

Something _is_ missing. The realisation stops me dead in my tracks. I clutch at my arm. 

There’s no pain. 

My Mark felt like it was on fire this morning. The pain of the summons stopped just before I found Lucius, but the faint itch of it, the slight irritation has always been there. Should always be there. And now it’s gone.

Carefully, I turn against the wall to shield myself from the curious eyes and roll up my left sleeve. 

Instead of the usual inflamed black brand on my arm it’s paled to a faint green silhouette, like an old tattoo. Faded. Harmless. I concentrate fiercely, searching my mind for the ever-present link to the Dark Lord.

Nothing.

How long has it been this way? I don’t remember it hurting since this morning. 

Since Hogsmeade.

LUCIUS! 

I have to get back.

In the midst of ever-growing pandemonium of Diagon Alley, cries for help and horrified screams, I raise my hand. I still have Lucius’ silver clasp clutched in it along with my wand, digging into my palm with its sharp edges.

_Apparate._ 

  
*

This isn’t the same place that I left less than half-hour ago. Horrified, I look around. 

The houses are gone. I recognise the high street only by the contours of scattered cobblestones under piles of debris. It’s silent, and that silence is a cry in my mind, ten times worse than the pain of the explosion and the screams at Diagon.

There are ashes. So many ashes that they cover the ground like snow, like the petals from the apple tree by the Hog’s Head. There’s smoke everywhere, but I don’t see any flames. 

The rain quickens. The wind picks up, breathing air – too warm for this weather – in my face. Thin, sparkling threads of rain fall at an angle, like Lucius’ fine silver mane. Dwindling billows of smoke cling to the ground, blocking my view of the wreckage. The air reeks of wet char and burned flesh.

Impossible! He had time to escape. He must have. 

For mere seconds, the sun flashes amid the storm clouds, casting gleams of light upon the ruins. Water drops, clean and cool, cling to my skin and soak into my clothing, mixing with the layer of white dust and ash. 

In the bitterness of smoke, I smell the faint scent of wet soil and apple blossom. 

Luce. Where are you?

All this smoke isn’t really coming from Hogsmeade after all, I notice. The wind is blowing it from the clearing on the road to Hogwarts. 

Does this mean that it’s over? I imagine a conversation with Albus about my faded mark: “I think it’s safe to say that the Dark Lord is gone.” “But have you checked, my boy? Have you looked to be sure?”

Well, I don’t care if Potter blasted the Dark Lord and himself to pieces! It won’t bring my Lucius back.

I’ll never find him in all this ash. Chances are, I wouldn’t recognise his body even if I saw it.

I clench my fists, hard enough to bend the metal of Lucius’ serpent portkey as it bites into my skin. There’s probably blood, but it doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters. 

A vision of Lucius’ elegant fingers struggling with the clasp on his shoulder and finally tearing it off, flashes in my mind.

Lucius! You bastard! You knew this. You _planned_ it. 

You had a chance to escape. Why didn’t you take it? You should’ve left me here. I should’ve grabbed your arm before you shoved me away and brought you with me. 

WHY?

“You’re going to live,” I hear his voice in my mind and see silver eyes shining with conviction. “Live!” It’s an order, one more of those he always loved to give me, crisp as his sarcastic laughter and bracing as the slap of his gloved hand against my cheek.

I’ll never accept that, Lucius. Not from you. You aren’t the self-sacrificing hero sort. You never performed a selfless act in your entire life unless it somehow worked to your advantage. My past’s been wasted in following you - into Slytherin, into the Death Eaters - years of chasing a dream, closer and closer, and never quite capturing you. Must I also spend my future life following your orders, even though now they send me further _away_ from you? 

You knew all along what would happen if the Dark Lord was defeated. And you severed my link to him before it did. Did you know that I took the Mark because of you? I would have never traded my freedom for your life and you had to shove it in my face in the end, just like that.

I never wanted freedom. Not now. Not at such a cost. What good would it do?

Damn you! You didn't have to die. I've spent my life searching, calling out and hearing a faint echo of an answer, just enough to regain hope, just enough to go on, to keep reaching, for you. Always you, Lucius. But it's too late for me to carry on the quest, much too late for us. After so many years of striving, I couldn't bear to find you only now: you, or whatever war and ruin would have left me of your body.

I take a final look at the desolate landscape before I Apparate home. Of all the buildings in Hogsmeade, only the Shrieking Shack still stands. The silver strands of rain lash my face, a whip of wet ice wielded by a brutal wind. 

Then I speak the incantation and everything goes dark.

  
*

Where am I?

I remember Diagon and Hogsmeade. I Apparated back home but I don’t remember ever getting in. Where is Albus? Where is the rest of the Order?

Instead I remember darkness and then the rough stones of a wall and deep blue sky and slicing agony in my lung. I remember collapsing, my body wet with blood. I remember screaming; agony and a word: _Apparate_! And nothing happened. I crawled somewhere. Away from sight. Here.

I’m lying on the pavement, hard and cracked and uneven. A narrow strip of a path between the two stone walls covered with graffiti and scratches. The air smells of rubbish bins and dirty river. Above me, the mill chimney looms, casting shadow over the entire stretch of the alley, a monument to Muggle worship of commerce and expediency. 

I know this place. 

It’s a dirty and desolate passage in Weston-Super-Mare, just by Spinner’s End, the one I always walked by but never went into. 

The hard surface beneath me starts to rock gently. And then it’s not the hard pavement of the street at all, but the bottom of a boat. The boat slides gently into the lake’s waters and leaves the shore. The night sky is full of stars. Fireflies dance at the lake’s surface, and the sky is spinning so fast that for most part I cannot tell which bright spark is which. The dark mass of the forest spreads behind me against the purple sky, and the distant lights of Hogwarts’ towers glimmer ahead, just like the first time I saw them when I was eleven years old. Before everything, before Hogwarts became a dungeon and then a prison, back when the castle seemed truly magical, appearing like this, over the water, under the starlight.

The wounds on my chest and shoulder feel numb, almost healed and barely there, like an old scar.

There’s a warm touch on my jaw, fingers brushing against the wet skin, so gentle they’re barely touching at all. My face is warm; warm and wet. 

It must be the rain. It’s still raining at Hogsmeade.

“Lucius.” It can’t be my voice, this low, croaking sound. It sounds hoarse, like someone who’s screamed his throat raw. “Luce?”

“No,” the voice above me answers. “I’m Harry.”

‘Who?’ I mean to ask, but the sound doesn’t come out. 

“It’s four a.m.,” the voice continues. “You’ve still got time till morning. Just heard you and wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

“Where is . . . ?”

“Shh.” So soft, that voice. Soothing. “Sleep.” 

And so I sleep. 

I do not dream of Luce. I dream of the explosion instead, spreading lightning-fast across the ley-lines of earth-magic and the tangled mesh of wizard-made spells, echoes racing around the globe in moments, destroying thousands of spell links and networks: Floo, Wizarding Wireless, Gringotts wards. It severs our biological connections to the magic in the Earth itself and treacherously unfolds ever wider, unnoticed and unseen. 

Like an uncoiling serpent, it holds so much destructive power within. It strikes so fast that it might even go unnoticed by the naked eye, but within a day, its deadly venom would do its job.

  
*

I blink at the clock. Nine! Nine o’clock, and I should’ve woken hours ago. I haven’t slept this late in ages.

Daylight from the kitchen window streams through the open door behind my back. In my bathroom, I run the water cold, splash it over my face and wet down my hair. 

I look into the shining depths of the mirror and recall another morning after a nightmare, when I first faced an ill-mannered ghost in my hallway. 

I’ve wondered several times how he managed to appear here at all. Old superstitions claim that mirrors trap ghosts and therefore should be covered with dark cloth for three days after someone’s death. I do not know enough about ghosts’ ability to travel through space, but I think that Harry used this mirror, the only mirror in my flat, as a convenient gateway to come through from wherever he was before. I stare at the surface spattered with water and wonder what other surprises this sheet of silvered glass might hold.

“What do you see?” the familiar voice sounds from the door. There’s no reflection to indicate Harry’s presence, but he is unmistakeably there.

“Where?” I ask, without turning around.

“In the mirror. You’ve stared at it for ages.”

Only myself as usual. But I wonder what Harry sees when he looks into one. Would he see the way he looked before he died, out of sheer force of habit; or has he grown used to seeing an empty space instead of his own reflection?

“Where are you from?” Harry asks out of the blue.

What? My reflection blinks. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious,” he shrugs, floating in the doorway. “You’ve taught me for seven years and I don’t know a single thing about you.” 

There was a time when he wouldn’t have had the nerve or the motive to ask. “A town in Avon.” I suppose there’s no harm in saying it now.

“Oh,” he responds, as eloquent as always, and looks as if he expected me to arise forth from the ground somewhere closer to hell and nowhere near such a trivial place as the last house on Spinner’s End. “Is it close to where the Order kept me? Your house that you said was the new headquarters?”

“It was that place. The last house on a street called Spinner’s End in Weston-Super-Mare.” I suppose I can reveal it to him now. He deserves to know and the house is long gone. Even if I walked on that street today, the wards would never recognise me or let me in.

Harry seems disappointed to hear my words. “Weston-Super-Mare! And here I thought it was France or Switzerland, the way you all kept talking about hiding me away in some secret place.”

“It wouldn’t have been a very good hideout if even you could guess its location on the first try,” I state the obvious.

“Oi!” he exclaims. “I’m good at guessing things.”

“So was Trelawney,” I scoff.

“Aha, you’re mocking me, so you aren’t angry,” he declares with a grin. “You’d never mock me if you were.”

Angry? “Should I be?”

“Er. Maybe,” he hesitates. “I don’t know. I saw your dream.”

“I guessed that.” Faint and unclear, I still remember the vision in the end: the lake and the boat, myself, trying to ask a question and failing, and an obscure sense of comfort, reassurance - company - that I had not expected to feel. “How much of it did you see?”

“Well, sort of…” He falters into uncertainty. “The whole thing. I didn’t mean to, but you kept talking in your sleep. …And I thought it was the tunnel,” he adds hurriedly afterwards.

I do not ask why he decided to keep watching once he made sure that I wasn’t being hunted by the werewolf. “How much did you understand?” I ask him instead. 

“Most of it,” he says, and tenses up, as if I’m teaching him Occlumency again and he’s just a wayward pupil caught with his head in my pensieve. Come to think, he has good reason to be nervous.

Perhaps it’ll do him some good to see what happened after he died, to view the events with someone else’s eyes for a change. He probably never did get a chance to know the details.

“There was this one thing,” he says, unsure of how to proceed. “You didn’t expect to live through that day in the dream, but you did. Why?”

I feared he’d ask at least one of these questions, but he managed to ask both in one go. “Why what?” With his persistence, I doubt it will delay the dreaded explanation by much.

“Why did you think you’d die, and why didn’t you?” he clarifies, in far less time than it would have taken me to talk him out of asking. Too late to try, now.

I pause to gather my thoughts. “There was more to Dumbledore’s plan than you think,” I tell him. “You weren’t meant to kill just the Dark Lord. The shock of his death would have resonated through the Dark Marks just as his summons did; strong enough to eliminate all of his followers.”

I notice his wary glance at my left elbow and meet his eyes. “Yes, unfortunately this perfect plan had one flaw. Dumbledore couldn’t save me.”

Angry disbelief kindles in him. “But he did. He must’ve!”

“No,” I shake my head and add softly. “Lucius did.” 

“Lucius MALFOY?” he cries, as if even the mere thought of Lucius saving someone is some sort of abomination. 

He might as well hear the whole truth. “Lucius was the one who inducted me into the Death Eater ranks,” I tell him. “It was through his Mark that mine was linked to the Dark Lord.”

“But, he sent you away in the dream. How could he do anything?” Harry argues in his usual stubborn manner.

Lucius did the only thing he could do, the only possible way that it could have been done. “The fact that I survived that day means that Lucius died _before_ the final cataclysm reached Hogsmeade.” My voice is as flat and final as a judge’s passing a death sentence. After all these years, it still hurts to think on it. Oh, Luce.

Harry doesn’t reply. This must be the first time in ages that I’ve managed to render him speechless. There’s a long, heavy pause as we stand there in the narrow space of my bathroom, caught in an endless instant of stillness, like a Muggle photograph. I’m next to the sink and he is halfway out the door and the silence surrounds us like air and weighs us down like water. And I’m glad of it; even this suspense is easier than speech.

“Ron died saving me.” Harry hurls words like stones into the pooled silence between us; they fly sharp as anger and hard as grief. “He wasn’t meant to die, I was.”

“It should’ve been Lucius haunting me,” I admit softly, to myself and perhaps even to him. It should have been Lucius in my dreams ‘till the end of the world’. “It should never have been you.”

He scowls at me.

Anger that had been focused on the past, on fate, is turned abruptly my way, and his gaze grows brittle and sharp enough to slice. He was floating, but now he descends to the ground, his feet firmly plant themselves on the floor. His form is just as transparent in the daylight, but his fury empowers him, makes him seem solid, more real. “You know what?” he cries. “You think you own the bloody world, Snape! Well, bollocks! What gives you the RIGHT to decide?”

And so we are back to yelling at each other. “Potter!”

“NO!” he glares at me, furious. “Who are you to tell me I shouldn’t bloody EXIST!”

Oh, but he should have existed! He should have been allowed to live and enjoy life and do all those unwise and irresponsible things that young men often do. He should never have been trapped in this place with only me for company. Infuriating creature! I want to snarl that in his livid face and watch his oh so righteous fury fade away. I want to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him, if only it were possible. “It shouldn’t have been you, you reckless fool; _you_ should have survived!” 

“Oh.” He must have been trying to say something else but he fails. His shoulders sag, as if all the air has been punched out of him.

It’s exasperating to have to attempt, yet again, to decipher the meaning behind his monosyllables. “What do you mean, ‘oh’?”

“Well, I, er… Just that, maybe I was wrong.” 

“Were you?” I almost sneer. Such a pity, all that shouting was for nothing.

“Good morning?” he offers, tentatively, and I cannot find it within me to berate him any further.

“Good morning,” I reply instead.

  
*

We called him a grouchy git at school, and he is one, that’s for sure. Only there’s more to him than the sneer and the insults. I’ve watched him long enough to know that. You look at someone for days and you learn a lot about them.

He buys groceries every Friday, normal things like milk and bread and a new pack of candles. Then on Saturday he cooks stew. He slices potatoes and carrots and greens with a razor-thin knife into the pieces of the same length, like ingredients for one of his nasty potions. Then he looms over the stove and stirs it all in a pot not a second after the water starts boiling. When he finishes adding all the stuff, he turns down the flame and sprinkles salt over it. When it’s ready, he ladles out some of the stew into a bowl and eats quietly, crumbling bread into pieces and dipping the pieces in. For three days afterwards, he has nothing but stew for dinner.

He never loses anything. It’s like he measured the entire flat in steps because he knows exactly where everything is. He never trips over things in the dark and he never draws the curtains in his room to let the light in. His room is always neat if not clean, except for candles. Those are everywhere, on the edges of the table, on the arm of the chair, on the floor, and even on the book shelves.

He reads an awful lot of books. Some of them I’ve seen before and some are really strange, written in letters I can’t even recognise much less read. Sometimes he leaves a book on the floor and if I try really hard I can open it and turn the pages myself.

He knows a lot of things, but he never tells what he knows. It’s a riddle after a riddle if you ask him a question. I have to keep guessing the meaning of every word he says.

It’s not so bad to ask him questions now. He doesn’t look too frightening without his great big cloak flapping behind him. In ordinary clothes he even looks normal, only starved half to death and very, very tired, especially with his elbows and knees and bony fingers always bent at sharp angles and his head down. His hair is always in his face and it hides everything, except for his long, hooked nose.

He hides a lot, and not just behind his hair. He hates going outside during the day when there’re people out on the streets. And he ignores everyone except for one neighbour. He doesn’t like company much. He doesn’t even like it when I follow him around during the day. When I need to tell him something I usually do that in the morning or the evening, cause it’s the best time to catch him in a better mood.

When I do catch him off-guard, his eyebrows rise up, he loses his heavy-lidded stare and glares unhappily instead. He’s good at glaring, with his black eyes and white face and big, beaky nose. He looks very gloomy and harsh then, like the grumpiest and grouchiest old owl in the Owlery, just woken up with its feathers all ruffled and in the worst mood ever; the kind of owl that’s only ever asked to deliver howlers. When he looks like that, it means that it’s all right to ask a question.

How can anyone spend all day frowning? He rarely smiles. And he never opens his mouth when he does. Sometimes he even covers it with his hand, as if he’s ashamed to show it.

But I got used to that after awhile. And I got used to his flat.

It seemed just as dark and gloomy as Snape on the first day, but now I sort of like it. It’s always quiet. Peaceful. It’s not so cold here now. Sometimes I can feel the warmth through the walls or from the other end of the room so I don’t have to try and sneak closer to him as much as I did before.

Everything will be all right.

I have to tell myself that over and over again just so it’ll sink in. Everything will be all right now. Look at how Ginny turned out. Her baby has magic. And there must be more children like that all over the place. They’ll grow up and they’ll come back to the Wizarding World. There’ll be people on the streets of Diagon Alley, just like before. They’ll rebuild everywhere they’ve abandoned, like Hogsmeade and the Burrow. They’ll live there again.

And there’ll be students returning to Hogwarts. I know there will be! All those kids’ve got to learn somehow. They’ll need the library and the spell books and even the nasty jars with bugs and spiders from Snape’s stores.

Soon they’ll come back and there’ll be magic taught at Hogwarts again. 

I always knew I’d end up there. Maybe one day I can go back to Hogwarts with Snape. He could teach again. We’ll need someone to teach the new kids, and he can still do that, even if he can’t do spells anymore. He’ll carry on his usual intimidating routine of scaring his students and I’ll help with what I can. It’s not much but I’ll do my best. Hogwarts will need all the help it can get.

I really hope that Snape will come to Hogwarts with me one day. It would be brilliant to have the school back just like before.

  
*

We’re reading.

There’re two candles burning in the room, one next to me, another in the corner where Harry is curled up.

I’m hiding in the depths of my leather chair and Harry rustles the pages of the book that I left on the floor. I set down a couple of volumes for him a few days ago, in the hope that boredom would awaken some dormant academic streak even in someone as hopeless as him.

He took no notice of the classics, but the book of fairytales was able to hold his attention for a good hour and a half. I suppose it’s a beginning.

He’s lying down, or rather hovering a few inches above the floor with his chin propped up on his folded hands and his legs dangling in the air, crossed at the ankles. The book rests against the newspaper stack and occasionally Harry gives it a particularly determined stare and without moving from his position turns another page. 

I finish my own book and set it aside on the arm of my chair.

He looks at me and waits a few seconds, as if to make sure that I don’t pick it back up and start again. Then he tilts his head and adjusts the glasses on his nose nervously before asking: “What would you do if you came back to Wizarding world?”

I give him a sceptical glare. There’s no use in wondering about what ifs. He should know that.

“I sort of thought maybe you’d want to teach Potions again.” He takes one look at my face and adds hastily, “Or Defence.”

I blink at him as if he’d suddenly grown a beard and acquired a phoenix.

“Not now of course,” he shakes his head. “Maybe in a few years. When people’ll start going back.”

What delusions have invaded his head now? He’s built an entire dream world out of impossibilities again, all because he saw one spark of hope. “‘Going back?’ Use your head, Potter! It’ll never happen in my lifetime, if it will happen at all.”

“You can’t mean that!” he exclaims. “Your lifetime? What about Ginny’s lifetime, or Mrs. Weasley’s, or any other wizard or witch who survived? It’s their home; they’ll need to go back.”

I spit out one word to put an end to his senseless ranting. “Impossible.”

“Even if you hated teaching then, things are different now,” he persists. “And there’s no one else who knows things as well as you do.”

I groan. Foolish ghost! “It’s not a question of aptitude. What you’re suggesting is physically impossible.”

“But,” he stammers. “Magic is back. Give it a few years and there’ll be children able to cast spells. They’ll need to learn somewhere, won’t they?”

What kind of outrageous suggestion is this? “Are you saying that a handful of surviving squibs should reopen the school of Witchcraft and Wizardry? Even if they ever get through the wards without getting Obliviated or killed – which, by the way, is impossible to achieve – how do you propose they should go about gathering and keeping in line a horde of young students waving their wands and casting spells all over the place?”

“That’s right,” Harry grins, answering my first question and blithely ignoring all the rest. “And it’s possible. Wanna bet?”

As if a betting on it would turn the odds any! “This is the most ridiculous idea I’ve heard in my life.”

“Fine,” he sneers. “Just remember that when we’re both at Hogwarts during the next Sorting! I promise; you’ll never hear the end of it.”

When he gets an idea stuck in his head like this, it’s never good. Perhaps it’s just as well that stubborn head of his holds so few ideas. “Potter, I know it’s hard for you to accept, but it’s high time you started to try. There will never be another Sorting.”

He just shakes his head and grins blissfully. “You’re too cynical and it can’t be good for you. Things are finally turning ‘round!”

“And you’re a fool, if you think that this would change anything.”

“All right,” he nods. “Forget about the ‘impossible’ part for awhile. You can’t be happy in London. D’you really want to spend the rest of your life like this?”

I look around my flat, dark and quiet in the flickering lights of the candles, at Harry, curled up next to one of them with the book propped against the newspapers, and the answer comes without thought. “I don’t mind.” I’m surprised to find that, for the first time I can remember, I’m actually satisfied with my life. Just because I might have responded differently a couple of weeks ago doesn’t make my current answer any less true.

I think of what it might mean, with Harry’s enthusiastic voice still ringing in my ears: “Magic is back! Don’t you see it’s the best thing that could’ve happened to us?”

I don’t see it. I don’t see that at all. But I keep my misgivings to myself. 

When I stretch out in bed that night, I think in detail of what will happen, as magic returns to the next generation. I still can’t see the hope Harry sees. Even if it does happen as he thinks, and someone does eventually pass through the wards, even if they survive and rebuild the abandoned ruins, this cannot end well. People will always find a way to wreck their own lives. 

Years down the line I see Diagon Alley. A long queue waits for the attentions of a child with a family wand, while the child’s squib parent works the crowd shamelessly. ‘Magic! Ten sickles a spell!’ I see parents desperate to regain magic through their children’s hands. I see children so desperate for knowledge they'll swallow any mishmash of rumours and lies. I see them struggling against the unrealistic expectations thrust on their small shoulders. Of all people, Harry should know how that feels. How long would a child's untrained magic last, if it’s a bargaining chip to be schemed and fought for by those who don’t have it any more? I see children taught to cast the darkest curses without fully realising their damage. I see them used for war and politics by power-hungry adults, controlled and made to control others. This isn’t hope. This isn’t anything good. It’s the beginning of a disaster. Magic always comes with a price, and we should be so lucky if the price of magic only turns out to be a handful of coins per spell. 

I don’t think we’ll ever be able to restore Hogwarts, but some of what Harry said to me does make sense. The next generation of wizards and witches would need our knowledge. Perhaps we were too quick to leave, fleeing the ruins of our world like rats, trading the future of our people for a corner where we could lick our wounds in private. Perhaps we should have held on and waited it out, or at least brought more with us than our useless wands and a household item or two. Perhaps after all these years we can still do something, gather the remaining resources, gather the survivors, and discuss our options. 

Whether I like it or not, there is a note in my coat pocket with the address of the best person for the job.

Harry doesn’t realise what he is getting into. As drowsiness starts to slow my churning mind, I don’t think I even realise the full extent of the situation, but I’m willing to try this. At least one of us should be aware of the consequences before we proceed any further in this outrageous affair.

*

I’m standing on the empty high street of Hogsmeade. It’s raining. 

The heavy drops strike an almost playful beat on the tin roofs: dancing over the surface of the puddles and making them ripple and spit bubbles like a particularly lively potion.

Nearby, Harry dances to that beat, stomping right into the shallow puddles and splattering mud everywhere. He doesn’t even notice where he’s going. Instead he’s catching raindrops on his tongue with his face turned up and mouth wide open like a baby bird. “Isn’t it brilliant!” he laughs. “Rain!”

Rain. Of course, that justifies everything. I make a face that shows exactly what I think of such ridiculous behaviour.

He notices and stops, shoulders drooping down, his hair slicked away from his face by all the water.

“What?” I bark. By all means, don’t stop on my account.

“You don’t like the rain?” He gives me a curious glance over his shiny glasses all covered with raindrops.

“What could’ve possibly given you that idea?” I drawl and narrow my eyes as the rain starts pouring even harder.

“You look like a soggy vulture,” he chuckles. “Isn’t that enough?”

I am not interested in this game. “Stop it, Potter.”

“What?” he shrugs but doesn’t have the decency to look the least bit sorry. “It’s the truth.”

Cold water drips from my nose and chin, plasters my hair to my face and slides down the back of my neck, inside the collar. My clothes stick to my body, wet and heavy, limiting my movements. I’ve had enough of rain, especially rain in Hogsmeade. Enough of the lashing winds and smoke amid the ruins; enough of these reminders of Lucius’ death in my dreams. Why does Potter have to be difficult? “Not the talking, stop the rain.” 

“It’s not my place to stop it,” he says with the same determination I showed him during our argument over the chess game. I don’t think he even realises that he’s mimicking my frown. “Just go inside if you don’t like it that much.” He shrugs. “That’s what people usually do.”

I should’ve never offered to play chess with him that day! With a final glare directed at Potter I march to the nearest door, which turns out to be the entrance to Three Broomsticks.

The dark space of the tavern is warm and silent. Only the dust motes stir in the murky air. No one is sitting at the narrow tables and booths in the corner. No one is reflected in the wide mirror over the bar, only my own figure, dark and slightly distorted by the distance. 

“Go on.” Harry says behind me. “Sit down.” 

My clothes dry out and my hair is no longer wet.

The second time I glance in the mirror, it has his reflection as well as mine.

The small table in the corner now has two bottles that I could’ve sworn weren’t there before. By habit I choose the seat next to the wall, the one facing the door.

Harry flops down on the chair opposite of mine and enthusiastically grabs one of the bottles. I leave mine where it is.

He gulps down a third of his drink in one go as if he was dying of thirst all this time then gives the second bottle a curious glance. “Should’ve known. I s’pose you don’t like butterbeer either?” 

I’ve never drunk the brew when I was young and certainly have no plans to try it now. 

“Fine.” He gives me an exasperated sigh and waves toward the bar. “Look.” 

I do. There’s nothing there, but when I look back, the second bottle is gone and a cup of coffee sits on its place. An ordinary cup with a spoon and a faint ribbon of steam rising from the hot liquid. 

I give it a distrustful glare.

“It’s not a prank,” he claims. “Just easier to switch things around when you’re not staring at them.” 

I lift the cup and sniff carefully. It smells like coffee and nothing else.

“Don’t worry.” Harry smirks. “You’ve had one just like it every morning for the past week, followed by the second cup right at noon and more in the evening. So another won’t kill you, I s’pose.”

The nerve! “Would you care to elaborate?” I narrow my eyes in warning in case he decides to do just that.

He simply consumes another third of his drink with a blissful look on his face. “M’not saying anything. Go on.”

I take a cautious sip. It’s coffee, with just enough sugar and milk to emphasise the bitter flavour and not enough to cover it up. 

Harry watches me for a while and then raises a questioning eyebrow. “What?”

I frown. 

“I only had coffee once or twice,” he says with an apologetic glance at his creation. “Wasn’t that good.”

“It’s passable,” I set the cup down on the table.

“Difficult git! Would it kill you to say something pleasant once in awhile?” He chuckles and kicks back in his seat, bottle in hand.

He, of all people, has the cheek to call me difficult! Outrageous. I give him a displeased glare. “You aren’t a piece of cake yourself, Potter.” 

He doesn’t bat an eyelid, just raises his bottle at me in a mock toast.

The next time I take a drink out of my cup, it’s not coffee at all, despite its dirty brown colour. It’s tea.

I barely stop myself from spitting hot liquid all over myself and the table. “Potter, what is this?”

“Nothing,” he grins with just a hint of mischief showing in the corners of his eyes. “Nothing at all. Try it now.”

I leave the cup alone for a good minute, in hopes that whatever he did to it will disappear by then.

When I take the next sip, the coffee, though slightly cooler, regains its normal taste. But on the second try, it becomes pumpkin juice and Potter grins proudly as if he invented the ghastly stuff.

I give him a cross look.

He keeps smiling, the irksome creature. “Don’t look so offended! It’s just a joke.”

On the third try, when the drink turns into red currant rum, I raise my hand to my mouth, set my cup aside and look down at it. 

Then I simply examine his confident grin as it quickly melts off his face.

“What is it? Did I mess it up?” he asks hesitantly and draws his eyebrows together, puzzled at my expression.

“I couldn’t’ve. It won’t . . .” I wait and watch him grow more and more alarmed. “Are you all right? Say something!” He stands up, not certain how to proceed, glasses askew and hair all ruffled.

Then I lower my hand and with great satisfaction reveal the smirk that I’ve been hiding for the last few seconds. _Got you_!

His face flushes red and he looks like is about to choke on air.

“Bloody hell! You, you bastard!”

“Surely you of all people wouldn’t be so bothered by a simple prank,” I purr.

“I thought I poisoned you!” he cries.

Poisoned. Ha! The fool wouldn’t know poison from the butterbeer that he’s consumed all along. “Was I in any danger of that?”

Harry considers the question, “You shouldn’t have been,” and shakes his head. “No.”

“So?”

“Look,” he argues. “What else was I supposed to think? You looked like you were about to keel over. I wasn’t sure.”

How gullible. Maybe he should think about that instead. “Then may I suggest being ‘sure’ before playing one of your tricks,” I drawl, most satisfied with the outcome of my performance.

Harry looks like he’s ready to explode for a second, but then simply laughs and waves his hand. “Fine, you win. Have your drink back.”

“Would it be the first one or all four at once?” I peer narrowly at the cup.

He smirks and regains his mischievous look. “M’afraid you’ll just have to find out for yourself.”

I stare at the cup and consider my options. “I might not mind so much if it starts tasting like coffee with more sugar added to it.”

“Stubborn git,” he says. “Should’ve asked for it to begin with. Then I wouldn’t’ve had to spend all this time guessing.”

Of course, but that wouldn’t have been half so entertaining.

  
*

My drink retains the expected flavour this time. Harry is almost finished with his. His face is thoughtful and he’s quiet. I’m almost tempted to ask for tea just to break the silence when he asks: “How does it feel to lose your magic?”

Why does he keep coming up with questions that cannot possibly be answered? I can’t explain something like this in a few simple sentences, the kind of answer he certainly wishes to hear. “How does it feel to walk through walls?” 

He tilts his head considering his answer and then gives it a fair try. “Sometimes they don’t feel like anything, like an illusion. Other times it’s like water. Not like walking through it, but like water going through your body, skin and bones and all. It’s different. I can’t explain it.”

“See,” I smirk at his efforts.

“But I can show it,” he grins triumphantly and reaches over the table. “Give me your hand.”

“What are you going to do?” I glance at him suspiciously. 

“Nothing. To your hand at least. Relax,” he chuckles and traps my left hand on the table surface with his hand over my wrist.

Far from relaxed, I watch him take his almost empty bottle, cover the top of it with his thumb, and whirl the remains of his drink around and around until the liquid turns clear and fills the bottle almost to the neck.

“See, just water,” he smiles, slides his finger out of the way, and takes a drink.

I nod wordlessly.

With the intense concentration of a magician about to perform something spectacular, he lifts my hand from the table and turns it palm up. His thumb presses into my wrist, and it feels warm, a bit coarse, and very solid. As if he isn’t a ghost at all, but a living, breathing human being. It’s curious how dreams are capable of such a deception.

“Watch this,” he says, and tilts the bottle very slightly over my palm.

The water drips slowly, and each drop lands with the strangest tingling sensation, not at all like water should feel against my hand. 

Harry grins and keeps the bottle steady, angled just enough to keep the slow drops falling. “Feel it?”

The water isn’t falling on my hand, I realise. Instead it’s going right through it. Seeping through the skin and bones and all, as Harry aptly put it. I feel each drop inside my flesh, in my skin and underneath it. My entire arm tingles at this invasion, concentrated at each tiny point of collision with the impossible.

“Yes,” I nod at Harry’s questioning face. I certainly feel it.

He smirks and then he turns the entire bottle upside down.

Oh!

It takes all my concentration not to break the contact and leave my hand underneath the burst of water exploding through my flesh at the intense speed. Harry senses that somehow and his fingers dig into my wrist even deeper, keeping my hand in place.

When it ends and Harry sets the harmless looking, empty bottle aside, I bend my fingers cautiously, just to make sure that I still can. My hand is completely dry and there is no water on the table.

“Course, it’s all much slower,” he speaks excitedly. “But I reckon that’s how it’d feel if I was _thrown_ through a wall.”

I stare at him, not even bothering to hide my fascination behind a dissatisfied frown. “How long have you been practicing for this little trick?”

“Never,” he shrugs. “Just tried it now.”

Ah, of course not. It’s very much like him to do that. “So if I ended up with a hole in my palm, what would you have done then?”

He smirks and glances pointedly at my hand: still there, isn’t it? “I can’t do anything to you in your dreams.”

Of course, nothing. Except for invading them from time to time.

“Are you worried?” Harry raises his eyebrow. “Your pulse got faster.”

I pull my hand back quicker than it takes him to let go, and slide it underneath the table.

“M’sorry,” he mumbles, looking at his own hand as if he’s unsure what it’s capable of.

He doesn’t look sorry enough. “What for?”

“Dunno. For not thinking it through and almost putting a hole through your hand after almost poisoning you, I s’pose.”

I clear my throat. “Did you still want to know how it feels to lose magic?” I ask him.

The offer takes him by surprise and he nods. “Yes.”

I remember the mask being lowered from my face and can almost feel the thin, silver strands of rain, like hair, against my forehead and my jaw. “There’s a part of you that’s been there since the beginning and you think it'll be there till the end of the world,” I tell him. Yes, until the end, indestructible, unending, everlasting, like old loyalties and like magic itself. “You know it like the back of your hand,” I do. I know it so well, that remarkable mixture of tenderness and cruelty, dominance and elegance that's entirely his, entirely Lucius. “You rely on it and you treasure it deeply. It energises you, motivates you to be a better person, and impels you to learn and wonder and question yourself.” He made me question my purpose, my loyalties, and my very existence; he had a talent for turning my life inside out and backwards, with a smile, a look, a word. “It may not give you the life you wanted, but it makes you _live_.” 

Lucius ordered me to live, and as much as I’d like to hate him for it, I can’t.

It’s quiet and peaceful in the darkened tavern, but it feels as though if I stepped outside I’d taste the bitterness of ash all over again, see the smoke blowing over the wreckage, and feel the bite of the silver clasp inside my fist. I didn’t realise the purpose of that blasted portkey as it was pressed into my palm until the unthinkable happened and it was too late to do anything, and even then I didn’t sense the loss in all that panic. How did it feel to lose magic? It was very much like losing Luce. “And when it’s gone, in all the commotion around you, you won’t even feel the moment it was taken away or recognise its absence. Until it’s too late and you’re left wondering how simple it was to lose everything that had ever mattered.” 

Harry sits across from me, glasses shining in the low light from the windows and hands folded over the table’s surface and around the empty bottle, fingers tapping against the glass. “You didn’t lose everything, y’know,” he says softly at last. “You still have this.”

“What?” What’s left afterwards? Only the sheer stubborn will to go on despite the odds; it’s the only thing that’s brought me this far.

He tilts his head and bites his lip thoughtfully. “Life, I s’pose. And you’ve got a future too. It could’ve been worse.” 

Hearing those words spoken by a ghost just emphasises how true they are. Yes, it could’ve been so much worse. I’m still alive. I have things to live for.

A pang of shame at my own self-pity goads me to my feet, sends me striding toward the entrance. My distaste at my own weakness is almost enough to make me forget what’s out there: the rain striking a beat on the empty cobblestones of the high street, each one a reminder of the ruins that I’d like to forget. Stepping on each stone of Hogsmeade streets is like treading upon an unmarked grave, and the rainwater reeks of smoke and charred flesh. It’s been years, but the downpour will still feel like the water from Harry’s bottle, invading under my skin in a billion of pinprick explosions. At the door, I pause and turn. “Is it still raining outside?” I ask him.

He gives me an impish grin. “Maybe, maybe not. You won’t know till you try.”

I stare at the door knob. “It won’t matter if I do try.” What is he playing at?

The trouble is, I already know what he’s doing: one by one, Harry is replacing my old nightmares with his new dreams.

“Go on,” he nods.

When I open the door, I step into brilliant sunlight and a wash of warm breeze. There are no rain clouds in sight.

  
*

I still can’t get used to the fact that anything is possible inside Harry’s dreamscapes. If he is capable of putting a cupboard door into my nightmare or spilling water through my palm, I really shouldn’t be surprised when I step out of the Three Broomsticks straight onto Hogwarts grounds, just outside Greenhouse Three.

A narrow trail twists around the greenhouse and runs all the way down to the lake across a field of clover. I follow the trail to the corner of the building with its dusty windows and overgrown ivy. On the way I see an old bicycle propped up against the wall, rusting away peacefully with dandelions poking their yellow heads through its wheel spokes, branches and dry leaves stuck inside the metal basket, all corroded from years of rain.

I brush the leaves off the torn leather seat and pull at the ivy climbing up the handle bars.

“It’s Filch’s,” Harry says behind me. “He never rode it when I was around, just pointed at it from the distance and kept talking how he and Mrs. Norris used to take it to Hogsmeade and back.”

I bend down to examine the pedals at the front wheel. They appear to be undamaged.

Harry leans down, watching my every move over my shoulder, clearly fascinated by my actions. “D’you know how to ride a bike?” he asks, sounding rather surprised.

“Of course.”

“But you’re a Wizard!” he splutters. “How?”

He seems to think I was raised in the Stone Age: somewhere without trains or buses, omnioculars or Wizarding Wireless. “My mother didn’t let me have a broomstick, so I rode a bicycle instead.”

“Oh,” he mutters his universal answer for everything. “I never had a bike as a kid, and afterwards I s’pose I just never had the time.”

It’s always the lack of time that prevents us from doing something. We all seem to suffer from the same predicament. Whether it’s not enough time to say good bye to someone, not enough time to live or even learn how to ride a bicycle. 

I untangle the bicycle from its green prison and notice that the rust on the frame is fading away slowly: Harry’s doing, no doubt. While I clean out the leaves from the basket attached to the handle bars and pluck the dandelions stuck in between the wheels, Harry gets rid of the rust completely and repairs the seat cover.

I pull the bicycle upright and push it onto the path to the clover field. The old iron wheels squeal shrilly at first but with each step they become easier to turn, as if they’ve been oiled by an invisible hand.

“Thank you,” I nod at him and start pushing the bicycle up the hill.

“No problem,” he grins, squinting at the sun, walking alongside the bicycle on the narrow path. I breathe in the scent of clover and summer grass, look at the blue sky and the shining lake surface ahead and start walking faster.

“Hey, wait up,” Harry yells. “I thought you didn’t like to be outside. You’re always in the dungeons,” he says, breathless, by the time that we reach the top of the hill.

Dungeons? Of course I was; where else would I be? “It’s called making a living,” I tell him just to see him frown. “You’re lucky not to have had that particular experience.”

“So I gather.” He nods at the bicycle, “Are you ever going to ride it, or are you just going to push it all the way to the lake?”

I shake my head and turn the handle bars over to him. “No, it’s for you.”

He stares at them, flabbergasted. “You’re joking!” 

“Not at all,” I assure him. “You will learn how to ride a bike.”

Wide-eyed and wary, he looks at the bike, then at me. “Now? Aren’t we a bit too old for this?” he chuckles.

“You’re barely old enough,” I murmur. “Take it.”

“Hey, you’re not so old yourself, y’know,” he grumbles taking over the handle bars. “I bet you just started making sour faces and talking in boring, clever sentences when you were three, and never grew out of it.”

Startled, I almost let go of the handle bars, one foot skidding on the gravel of the trail. Harry grabs the seat from his side and keeps the bike upright until I regain my footing. 

Not old? He couldn’t possibly have said that. I mustn’t have heard him right. I look at him and see the widest grin spreading on his face.

I lead the bicycle off the trail and into the short grass speckled with white clover. “Come here,” I tell him. He steps off the path and approaches slowly.

“Get on.”

He gives me a wary look, but swings one leg over and mounts it cautiously, holding onto the frame instead of the handle bars, as if mounting a badly adjusted broom that’s hovering too high up above the ground. Filch’s bike was certainly not intended for someone of Harry’s height, but his feet can still reach the pedals, so it should be all right.

Standing in front of the bicycle, I grasp the handle bars tighter to steady them. “I’m going to move away,” I give him a fair warning.

“Wait!” he gasps. “Hang on, I can’t balance it alone. Look, it falls over every time I take my feet off the ground.” His hands are still wrapped around the bar in front of him, as if he’s trying to steer a broomstick. Only the tips of his toes reach the grass. He has to stand on one foot or the other in order to keep the old and bulky bicycle upright.

“Potter,” I sigh. “Put your feet on the pedals and keep your hands on the handle bars. You have to be moving in order to balance it.”

“You try it,” he grumbles, managing to get his feet off the ground at last and almost sending the bike toppling over. “Don’t you let go!”

Exasperating brat! “I already know how. The point is to teach you.”

“M’not so sure I want to learn,” he argues. “Why do I need it anyway?”

“Because.” There are already too many missed opportunities in this world. And he deserves another chance at this, even now. “I’m telling you to.”

“Bossy bugger,” he pouts, but doesn’t protest any more than that.

I raise my eyebrow in response and narrow my eyes. “Get your hands off the frame. It’s not a broomstick.”

“I know!” he exclaims. “M’not trying to steer it, m’just trying to hold on.”

“I’m surprised you ever managed to stay on a broom, with the way you’re trying to ride a bicycle.” I smirk, watching him grow more frustrated with each passing second. 

“Yeah, well,” he huffs. “Broomsticks follow instructions. And have cushioning charms, which is more than I can say for this old thing.”

“They both work on the same principle,” I inform him with great satisfaction. “Mobility gives them balance.”

“No.” He tries to jump off but can’t quite manage to swing his leg back over. “Ow!” He trips as he finishes clambering off, and I have to tighten my hold on the handle bars to keep the bicycle from falling on top of Harry. “All it has is a seat that pokes you as you try to get off it and a bar that can bloody maim you!” He hauls at his cloak where it’s all tangled around his legs, finally tearing it off his shoulders and throwing it in the grass.

I glare down my nose at him, with his hair ruffled even more than usual by his haste, and his glasses resting crooked on the tip of his nose. “Coward. Get back on.”

It works. His eyes narrow. He dusts off his garish Gryffindor shirt and adjusts his glasses. Then he grabs the handle bars, swings his leg over, and raises his feet to the pedals in one movement.

When the bicycle starts moving, it almost knocks me over. I jump out of the way and watch as it accelerates down the hill, heading toward the lake.

“Whoa, it’s working,” I hear Harry’s surprised yell. “BRILLIANT!”

A nervous “How do I stop it?” follows right after the cheerful yelp.

I shake my head and consider letting him crash headfirst into the lake. “Pull the lever next to the handle bars,” I yell back.

Apparently he does just that. There is a loud, cheerful ‘ding’ and the bicycle keeps racing on. Harry’s feet are off the pedals and dangling to each side of the front wheel.

“Not that one!” I shout, unsure whether to inform him at once what I think of his common sense or just start laughing uncontrollably at the entire situation.

“. . . doesn’t move!” he echoes back from the distance.

The bicycle makes a dramatic splash as its front wheel reaches the waterline. I wince and hope that Harry has enough sense to steer.

He doesn’t.

But instead of going deeper under the water, the bicycle does exactly what a broomstick would do. It sweeps along the shoreline at a sharp angle and soars high up above the lake.

Then it turns in a lazy arc and flies back to the shore. 

When it hovers upside down, suspended five feet above me in the air, I notice that Harry, holding onto the frame like a broomstick, is grinning from ear to ear. His impish face is just begging me to throw a jinx, or at least a rock at it.

“I went through all the trouble of teaching you, when you can _control_ it?” I squint crossly at his profile against the sun.

“Uh-huh,” he nods, and starts laughing. “It was brilliant! Did you see that splash?”

“I changed my mind,” I tell him as I bend down. “You aren’t too old to learn how to ride it, merely too juvenile.”

He yelps, ducking the flung pebble. “Oi! Says who?”

The second pebble bounces off his shoulder.

While he gawps, halfway between laughter and outrage, his glasses slide down his forehead and he has to take a quick dive in order to keep them on his face.

It is not until long after this dream - bright and hot with sunshine and intoxicating with its scent of clover and summer grass - finally comes to an end that I realise that I had no preceding nightmare to be rescued from. Harry had created it all on a whim, simply because he could, and maybe even because he wanted to.

  
*

In the morning, I remain in front of the bathroom mirror longer than usual. 

Albus once told me that a person is always startled when he hears himself called old for the first time. I didn’t understand what he meant at first. I never considered myself young to begin with. That’s why, I suppose, I reacted with such startlement to Harry’s words. 

I’m hardly young. I can’t be. 

But I turned forty-five – only forty-five – last January. It seems difficult to believe that now. At Hogwarts I taught alongside people who were twice if not three times older than me for so long that I came to think of them as my peers. And after Hogwarts I’ve seen too much in my life, have lost too much, had enough to age a person beyond his years. 

You haven’t seen life until you’ve turned eighty, McGonagall used to say, to which Dumbledore would always mumble: “And you’ll spend another eighty years deciding what to do with it.” I turned eighty a long time ago, in my mind at least. Perhaps, as Harry said, I’ve been that since I was three years old and never grew out of it.

I’ve never had the opportunity to be anything younger than eighty in my mind. Perhaps it’s not too late for me, as well as Harry, to have a second chance.

In the kitchen, I stumble past the table and grab a fork from the counter in one hand while pouring the already brewed coffee into a cup with the other. Still holding the coffee cup, I reach in the oven and poke the nearest slice of toast. I leave the toast on the fork as I add milk and sugar to the cup and take a careful sip, not waiting for the sugar to dissolve. 

Toast isn’t so bad with coffee, I decide after taking the first bite.

“Morning!” Harry beams at me, as he materialises at his usual spot by the window.

I squint at him, bright amid the morning rays. Too bright by half. “Stop being so damned chirpy at me, Potter! I’m not your best friend; I’m a grouchy bastard twice your age.” 

“Why shouldn’t I?” he grins teasingly. “Got loads of reasons to be friendly. After all, I’m only following your orders.” 

I raise an eyebrow at him. Bloody insufferable morning people. If I could touch him, I’d strangle him. At least it’d shut him up.

“You’re the one who said we’ll have to learn to coexist, remember? So we might as well make the best of it.”

I find myself unable to argue with my own reasoning. How galling. “Any other reasons?”

“Er. One.”

“Well?” I take a leisurely sip of coffee and wait him out.

“S’not so cold here any more,” he finally says with a slight, secretive smile.

Cold? “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Nothing,” The sense that he’s hiding something only intensifies. “I just like it better this way.” 

“Care to elaborate?” I prompt him, but he doesn’t reply. Only when he floats over to the oven with a blissful expression on his face do I realise that he’s stopped paying attention to the conversation altogether.

“What is it?” As I ask him, his grin spreads even wider.

“Mmm, toast!”

At the same moment, the first scent of burning bread reaches me and I hastily set my cup aside. I left the oven on and didn’t even notice it, what with my nose in my coffee cup, and Potter. This is yet another reason one shouldn’t get acquainted with ghosts. It’s too distracting. Hastily I turn the knob and open the oven door, releasing a waft of smoke. Only then do I comprehend Harry’s reaction.

“You can smell it?” My outburst is pure surprise; of course I should never have bothered to ask. It’s obvious from the way he’s hovering right next to the stove, right in the cloud of smoke.

“Course I can,” he nods happily. “It’s the best.” 

I scowl, annoyed at my own forgetfulness, as memories of my Defence lessons return. Ghosts are perfectly capable of detecting aromas, and are as attracted to the scent of burned or otherwise inedible food as a living man is to the taste of food itself. Since the beginning of time people have burned their offerings to the spirits. 

The coffee has had time to drive away the fog of morning from my mood, or perhaps I’m still caught up in the peacefulness of last night’s dream and its growing sense of excitement and sunlight. Whatever the reason, Harry’s happiness is infectious, and I find a small smile creeping its way onto my face as I watch him spiralling, exuberant as a pinwheel, wrapped in tendrils of smoke. I used to think that dreams were nothing but lies. Smoke and mirrors. And yet the only thing that mirrors can do is reflect back the truth, if only we care to look for it inside. 

Over the years I’ve learned to hoard away and savour the bits of happiness that life offers, but Harry isn’t me. He is spontaneous and haphazard and he takes life in waves crashing one after another: grief and joy, anger and contentment all at once, all in a single explosion of sensations. He finds happiness in the most simple, mundane things. He seeks it out in the darkest places. He can build it out of nothing but smoke. He has this uncanny gift of turning smoke and mirrors into something genuine and something good. He doesn’t need to become like me. He should never become like me. I watch him surrounded by the smoke coming from my oven with a blissful grin on his face for another few seconds, and then, driven by an impulse, I march into the hallway and dig through the pockets of my coat until I find the scrap of paper.

And then I return into the kitchen and show him the note.

  
**Links.**

The “mirror” scenes were inspired by [I am a Mirror](http://www.shadowdance.com/poems-music-art/musicfive.html), Freudiana:  
_Suppose I were to tell you that the meaning of dreams  
Is not all that it seems  
And the ultimate truth is a lie?_

Lucius scenes and the subsequent dream were inspired by [Who Wants to Live Forever?](http://www.highlander.org/A-Kind-Of-Magic.html#6), Highlander.  
_There's no chance for us, it's all decided for us,  
This world has only one sweet moment set aside for us._

Albus is quoting [Oliver Wendell Holmes](http://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/quotes/o/oliverwend152678.html) about his age.   
_A person is always startled when he hears himself called old for the first time._


	5. Energy

“Y’know what? Nothing beats fresh toast in the morning!” Harry grins like a monkey, perched on the edge of my table next to my forgotten coffee cup. My kitchen reeks of bitter smoke, but to each his own, I suppose.

No point in putting it off any longer. “I have something for you.” I offer him the note.

“What’s that?” he jumps off the table into the air and gives the paper in my hand an interested glance. “A breakfast bill? Didn’t know you were that stingy.”

Paragon of forbearance that I am, I simply sigh at his quip and unfold the paper, holding it out to him.

As he reads, the excitement on his face slowly ebbs. His hands close into fists and his whole stance grows tense. As he stares at the note, I can’t quite decipher his expression.

He looks up. Now I can see an unspoken question lingering in his eyes, as if he doesn’t believe what the note says and expects confirmation.

This isn’t the reaction I anticipated. He’s supposed to be happy to see the note. “Are you all right?”

He gives a terse nod, as if not trusting himself to speak.

I raise an eyebrow. He certainly doesn’t look all right. He looks shocked and nervous. Wary, as if he’s spent too long trying to collect crumbs of happiness amid darkness and smoke; as if he’s forgotten the true joy of seeing a long-lost friend. “Are you sure?”

“Yes!” he finally says, with startling confidence. “Never better.” 

He reaches for the note, not quite touching, which would be impossible for him to do even if he wanted. His fingers linger with caution and even reverence over the name and the address, as if he can feel that the writing is not a mere illusion. “Where did you get it?”

“Molly Weasley.”

“Oh. I never even knew if Hermione survived.” He looks at me and his mouth stretches in a shadow of a smile. “Was afraid to ask anyone.”

“It’s not as if you had that many opportunities.”

“Yeah, I s’pose.” He chuckles faintly, an echo of a laugh which sounds more like a cry.

I can deal with his anger or his immaturity, but this soberness and sarcasm is unnatural for Harry. He shouldn’t be like me. I clear my throat and try to dispel this tension and my own awkward urge to push the paper into his hand or pat his shoulder in reassurance. He’s a ghost, I mustn’t forget that. “We can see her whenever you’d like.”

“How far is Reading?” he asks, but it’s clear from his face and intonation that the question might as well be: how soon can we get there?

I haven’t been to Reading myself, but I know where it is. “Less than an hour by train, I imagine.” 

He smiles then, his first content and maybe even joyful smile since reading the note. “Thank you. I really mean it.”

I set the note on the edge of the table then and move away, hiding my face behind a curtain of hair and a lukewarm coffee cup. “It was nothing.”

I need Granger’s help. And it makes Harry happy; that will make the inconvenience of the trip worthwhile. From memory I tally the number of banknotes in my coat pockets, and decide that I can afford this trip, considering that we’d only need one day-ticket and I’ve already bought provisions for the week. I refuse to withdraw any more money until June, but there should be enough until then.

We can take the train there today and return in the evening. He’d want to see Granger as soon as possible and there’s no sense in wasting time.

* 

I’ve just donned my coat and am brushing away the traces of dust from its threadbare shoulders and sleeves, when a cry from the hallway startles me.

Heart speeding, I open my door, looking up and down the hall. Harry?

“Bloody hell!” he exclaims for the second time.

“Potter?”

His face has gone even paler than usual, faded and hazy as smoke; only his wide eyes shine in the darkness of the hallway. “I’m really going to see her!”

“Yes.” Indeed he will. I suppose the idea has finally sunk in, an hour afterwards. So awkward he is, standing in the hallway, staring at my door for a good five seconds, as if it’s something he’d lost long ago and suddenly found, and now he’s trying to work out what to do with it. Then he looks up, positively beaming, and strides impulsively toward me.

For one paralysing moment it looks like Harry is about to do something embarrassing and irrational, like give me a hug. Then I remember – with rare relief – that it’s impossible. 

But with an exultant yell he rushes onward, not stopping at all, until he passes straight through me. 

A second later, a blurry flash before my eyes and a sudden tingle indicates that he dared to do it again. 

Having a ghost rush right through me is the most curious feeling: subtler than might have been expected. None of that melodramatic “chill of the grave”, just a fleeting frisson, a soft stir of the air all around me. As for that momentary lift of my heart and the catch in my breathing, any unexpected summer breeze might have the same enlivening effect. Really, it’s not even as noticeable as a touch. Much more shocking than the sensation itself is the fact that it was Harry who did it. In fact, I might’ve been less surprised at a friendly slap on my back or his calling me by my given name.

I watch him spin in wild circles around me then bounce off the ceiling in his exuberance. He pauses in front of the door, and with a cry of “I can’t wait to see her!” he’s gone. Just like that, straight through the closed door.

But not for long; he pokes his head back in and waves me excitedly onward, “C’mon, let’s go!”

Struggling to keep from smiling back in an embarrassing emotional display of my own, I glower instead, as if warning against making a habit of such impetuousness.

How absurd. At least his behaviour was tolerable before he completely lost his mind. In this case, I fear, I have only myself to blame.

I open the door and follow him down the sunlit stairway and into the street.

*

We arrive at Paddington station just before the eight-thirty train, it turns out. Harry becomes my substitute for a shadow underneath the omnipresent artificial lights, tagging along and goggling at each bright notice or advertisement board as if they’re Quidditch posters or any other such nonsense he’d gush over.

When I slip a banknote into the ticket booth window through the narrow gap – one return, to Reading – I frown at the price.

Harry pokes his head into the booth, then fires an impish smirk at me. “Don’t start.”

Start what? I didn’t say anything.

“You were going to gripe about the money, weren’t you?”

Not now, I won’t; not if he’s going to make these pitiful attempts at second-guessing me. I certainly can’t have him thinking he was right; I’d never hear the end of it! “Some of us know the value of money,” I rumble all-but-inaudibly as I walk away from the booth with my expensive scrap of paper, “while others assume that everything in life is free.”

“Pfft.” He shrugs. “Just keep the sour face you’ve got right now and ask for one of those.” He nods toward a poster advertising a Seniors’ Railcard with a 1/3 discount on fares. “I’m sure you’ll have no problem getting it.”

Insolent brat! “You’re lucky you don’t need a ticket,” I growl, “because you wouldn’t be getting one from me.”

“Good,” he parries with a grin, “Least I won’t have to hear you whinge about the cost of my ticket as well as yours.”

The train is just as abysmal as I remember, with its constant crowds and noise and grime and chemical stenches. I don’t know what’s worse, making my way through the thronged streets of London or sharing this pitiful space with just as many people as there are on the streets. 

Harry follows me through the ticket gate and into the car, where I notice that he’s much worse off than me. At least I’m seen by others. Being invisible, he has to duck and dodge as one passer-by after another walks through his space, but stubbornly he keeps up with me all the same. I find two vacant seats in the very corner of the car and choose the aisle side, motioning for Harry to sit down next to the window. He declines with a shake of his head and remains upright.

With relief, I notice that most of the people around me have settled down and no one has attempted to claim the seemingly empty window seat next to me. 

The train starts moving.

Harry yelps in surprise and gives me a wide grin. I respond with an exasperated look. Honestly, he’s hopeless, even as a ghost. And I thought in all these years he’d learned not to behave like a firstie in Honeydukes’.

He sits down, finally, but not in the seat next to me. For some reason he decides that the window frame would make a better seat for him. He slides through the glass backwards as if it isn’t even there, and leans back like the careless brat he is; using the window frame for support, he all but crawls out of the window completely. Open mouthed and wide-eyed, he throws his head back in the rush of our slipstream, basking without shame in every bit of sunlight he can get, until he looks as though he is radiating light himself.

‘With open mouth he drank the sun as though it had been wine,’ The snippet of Oscar Wilde that comes to me as I watch him is ironically fitting to this moment, especially considering where we’re going today. Harry does look slightly drunk: dishevelled and giddy with sunlight and the wind and the open air behind the train window and the speed with which the countryside flies by in a green blur, behind his back. Leaning out of the window – through the glass itself as if he’s about to fall out any second – he makes my head spin.

“Gorgeous view this time of the year, isn’t it,” a middle-aged woman across the aisle from me says. I raise an eyebrow and she nods toward Harry’s window, “Just noticed you looking.”

I give her a scorching glance that halts any other commentary she might’ve had, and turn my shoulder to her. I have no plans of discussing the view, or anything else. Instead I let Potter have another few seconds of frivolous fun before I beckon covertly at him. “Get in and sit down properly,” I hiss, low enough so I’m not overheard by others.

“What’d I do?”

A stern look serves as a sufficient answer: nothing good.

“Git! Just because you can’t stick your head through the glass doesn’t mean you have to stop others from . . . oh hey, look, horses!” he waves excitedly at the pasture in the window, probably not even realising at that moment that his hand has just passed through the glass and not air.

He calms down as the train approaches Reading and doesn’t attempt any other foolish tricks. He talks instead as he fidgets nervously on his seat. 

“Hermione’d be able to help,” I distinguish for the third time from his frantic mumbling intended more for his own benefit than for mine. “She’s bright; she’d figure it out in no time. I bet she doesn’t know anything about magic yet. Wouldn’t that be a surprise! She’ll help us, you’ll see.”

He keeps repeating it as if he doesn’t believe in it himself and wants to reassure himself that it’ll happen. “Stop worrying,” I hiss hoping I am not overheard taking to the empty space. 

“What?” he asks startled. “I’m not.”

Really? Then what are all these mumbled reassurances for? I give him my ‘You may as well confess now and get it over with’ look: the one I perfected on decades of students. 

“It’s nothing.”

“Potter, don’t lie.” Or if you do, at least try to make it more believable than that.

“What if she’s like Ginny?” he whispers at last. “Or Mrs. Weasley? What if she shuts the door in my face?”

Of course, it’s not closed doors _per sé_ that he’s worried about: those don’t even slow him down. “She won’t.” I murmur.

“How can you be sure?”

“I am.” If Granger has somehow picked up the old Wizarding prejudices toward ghosts, she’ll have to deal with me. I might like her help on this, but I don’t have to have it. And if she’s anything but respectful to Harry, she will regret it. “I won’t let her.” I give Harry what I hope is a reassuring nod.

It prompts a small smile. “As if you can stop Hermione from doing anything. You can’t take points from Gryffindor any more.”

As if my strategies ever began and ended with anything as obvious as points. Even now, there is much I can do – and will – if Granger upsets him. “Stop fretting. It’ll be fine,” I murmur softly as the train pulls into the station.

* 

Hermione lives in a ‘side-street off Pepper Lane’. That’s what Snape said when he checked the address on the map at the train station. Pepper Lane itself is easy enough to find. For a ‘lane’, it’s a pretty big street: wide and leafy, with old trees and green hedges on both sides. But looking for Hermione’s apartment building along all the tiny side-streets is much harder, and it takes us ages and a lot of false alarms. I like Hermione’s town so far; the bits of it I’ve managed to see are clean and pretty, especially around the campus. There are a lot of young people around: Uni students. There’s Reading University to the left and a primary school to the right, with Pepper Lane between them. Hermione must like living here. It seems like somewhere she’d feel right at home. Wonder if she’s going to any classes at Uni? Or maybe she’s even teaching them already. 

How long has it been? Years! Has she thought of me? How much has she changed? Maybe she’s married, or even has a kid or two.

“Potter, get over here. That’s the right building,” Snape points and soon after we’re standing outside the front door of the flat. No wonder we didn’t find it earlier: it’s tucked well back from Pepper Lane, far behind the trees on a tiny side-street we’d taken for part of the school car park at first. 

“Well, go on,” Snape nods.

What? What is he expecting me to do? I can’t just waltz in there! Actually I can, only it’d be rude. And I certainly can’t knock. “You first,” I tell him, and back away from the door, all the way behind Snape. At least he’s tall enough and if I stay all the way back here Hermione won’t see me at first.

He raises an eyebrow, the amused sort, as far as I can tell. “Are you going to hide behind my back all day and let me do the talking?”

“Course not!” Well. Maybe only at first. Just until I make sure that Hermione is all right with me, like . . . this.

“Fine.” 

He doesn’t believe me, does he? He looks like he wants to say something else, like ‘Ha!’ or ‘And you call yourself a Gryffindor, Potter!’ Well, he should try talking to Mrs. Weasley and Ginny all evening as they ignore him! And then I bet we’d see how nervous he’d be about Hermione. 

Well? “Aren’t you going to knock?” Or are you going to just stand there and glare? 

“I have to,” he smirks, looking very amused at something, and raises his hand to the door. “It’s not as if you’re able to do it.”

No! I didn’t mean right now. “Wait! What if she . . .”

“Potter!” He says and I stop speaking and then I realise that I must look like a right berk to Snape about now, a ghost unable to even knock on his friend’s door.

“Fine. Do it.” What am I scared of anyway? It’s just Hermione. I wasn’t this afraid to show up in Snape’s flat out of the blue, was I? But then I didn’t care about what Snape would say.

Snape doesn’t knock. Instead he spins ‘round. “She’s not going to shut the door in your face.”

I know that! Well, I hope so! ”Yeah, you won’t let her.”

“Exactly,” he growls in that ‘woe betide’ voice of his. But I’d prefer it if he didn’t have to try.

*

When Snape knocks, there’s no answer at first. For a long, long time. It almost looks like no one is home, until a faint, squeaky voice answers back. “Coming. Hold on.” Hermione never sounded like that! 

Then the door opens an inch, and there’s a face, an old lady – old and wrinkled – with dark brown eyes. She looks a bit familiar. She opens the door further and I can see yellowed lace around her wrists and neck and there’s this awful smell: mothballs with something bitter and flowery. Lilacs. Eugh! If I can smell it from here, I wonder how strong it really is. Poor bloody Snape!

“Hello, dears, did you need something?” she says. We must’ve had the wrong address or something. Wait! She said ‘dears’! Did she mean me as well?

I blink, and Snape blinks and then he gets this nervous look on his face and turns paler than he already is and asks accusingly: “Professor Longbottom?”

“Professor?” I cry. That’s not a professor, that’s . . . Neville’s Gran! Oh. Wow! Snape’s just full of surprises!

“Yes,” he nods. “Augusta Longbottom, the worst bloody Defence instructor ever to teach at Hogwarts,” he announces bitterly and I can’t figure out if he’s speaking to me or to Neville’s Gran, because he sounds like he’s explaining it to me but he’s staring at her as if he’s afraid that she’s going to jump out and bite him. “Which says a lot,” he concludes sourly, “considering the idiots they usually let teach that course.”

Gran’s eyes narrow at that outburst. “I remember you now, young man!” she exclaims shrilly. “You’re that snooty boy with acne and bad hair who set my best hat on fire. Couldn’t get the stains out of the suede for months!”

“Really?!” Wow. Now here’s something you don’t hear every day! Did he do it on purpose? Wonder how much trouble he was in?

Neville’s Gran nods mournfully and Snape looks about ready to explode.

“I didn’t do it, you old bat!” he barks. By the way he glares, Neville’s Gran is really lucky to get only words for an answer. “She had me confused with Macnair half of the time,” he adds in an aside to me, “and the other half she wittered on about the doxies!”

Why’d he tell me that? Probably he gave up on convincing her long ago. That must be it. Ha, poor Snape! I bet he got quite a detention out of it too. I shouldn’t laugh; he’ll be furious if he catches me grinning behind his back.

“I see you still haven’t learned your manners after all these years, young man,” Gran tells Snape, just as mournful as she was talking about her hat. I laugh then. I can’t help myself! It’s the way Snape looks and she looks and oh hell! He’s ready to lunge for her throat. I have to do something!

“Hi, Mrs. Longbottom! Do you remember me? Harry.”

“Sorry, dear.” Neville’s Gran squints and shakes her head, unharmed . . . yet. “You just don’t look familiar. Age! My head’s like a sieve at times.”

What? That’s the first time in ages that someone didn’t recognise me. Well, someone who could see me, anyway. “Harry Potter? From Neville’s year. We’ve met at St. Mungo’s that one time. I heard a lot about you at school.” I probably shouldn’t say that I’ve heard even more about the way her dress and hat looked on Snape. Not the real Snape, of course, but Neville’s boggart in third year. 

“Out of my way!” Snape barks at me.

Dammit! I can’t really stop him from doing anything, can I? What am I going to do, yell for help? Swing my fists through his chest? He’d step right through me if he wanted to. Well, he’ll have to! Cause until he does that, I’m not moving!

“Oh hush,” Mrs. Longbottom scolds him. “If you’ve got nothing decent on your mind, don’t speak at all. When it’s the dead bloke who’s the more pleasant of the two of you, doesn’t that tell you something?” 

Oi, don’t say that to him! He’ll tear you apart and I won’t be able to do a thing about it. Wait a minute! The ‘dead bloke’?

“Of course it does if you put it that way, you crazy old witch!” Snape yells right in my ear, but at least he doesn’t try to move past me. Whew.

Her eyes narrow in disapproval and her lips are in a thin line, like McGonagall’s when the twins did something especially bad. “Back in my day, that would’ve been twenty points from Slytherin.”

“Oh really?” he sneers. “I doubt Slytherin was even born ‘back in your day’!” 

“Young man! This is most . . .”

“Er. . . Mrs. Longbottom. We’re here to see Hermione.”

It startles her. She coughs and nods. “Hermione? Well, yes, she’s . . .” The front door below us slams and she concentrates on the heavy footsteps instead. “Neville! You’re home early.”

“Gran? What’s going on here?”

“Visitors,” she huffs disapprovingly and disappears behind the door.

“Good day, Mister Longbottom.” Snape growls as he turns to glower at him. He enjoys doing that far too much. No wonder he always harassed Neville in Potions! The sour git probably held a grudge ever since his own Defence lessons.

“P-professor!” Neville, as tall as Snape now and twice as wide in the shoulders, goes white as a sheet and almost falls back down the stairs he just climbed.

“Neville! Your flowers.”

Neville stares at me and goes even paler. He collapses against the railing and grips at it with both hands. “Ow. M’fine, s-save the tulips!”

Neville’s bouquet drops down the flight of stairs. Splash! Red and yellow petals follow it like a flock of tropical fish.

We haven’t been here five minutes and Snape has already caused enough mayhem. What is it with him today? “Look what you did!” 

“I fail to see how any of this is my fault, Potter.”

“What’s all this noise . . . HARRY?!”

“Er.” That’s not the way I expected to see her. Not at all. “Hermione?” She’s got glasses that cover half of her face, but besides that she’s just the same, skinny and with a wild frizz of hair. She’s even got a heavy book in her hands: some things never change. 

She turns as pale as Neville and stares at me, the way Neville is still staring at Snape. Oh, this is not good. Not good at all!

“Why, Miss Granger. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Stop it!” I hiss. I’m not going to let Snape stand there and make me feel embarrassed to see Hermione. She can tell what I am without Snape’s sarcastic comments.

“That’s . . . it can’t be.”

“Of course it’s him.” Snape sneers. “Who knows what else you’ve missed, spending your life with your nose in a book, as usual. I doubt you’d notice it if even magic was suddenly back.” Hermione blinks and gives him a sour glance. 

He’s a fine one to talk about books! If he keeps this up, he’ll have to deal with his nightmares on his own!

“It is back, by the way. Did you know?”

All of a sudden I remember why we hated that greasy bastard at school so much!

“So you had better stop gawking at Potter as if he’s a circus freak and ask him in, so he can tell you all about it.”

I’m a what? Oi!

Hermione’s face isn’t so white anymore. She narrows her eyes and glares. “Don’t call Harry that! I don’t care if you were a professor; nothing gives you the right to insult my friends in my house!”

“In that case, it’d do you good to invite him in first.” 

Hermione swings the door open with a murderous expression and Snape smirks, looking satisfied. Too satisfied. What’s the greasy git up to now?

*

I can’t believe I dropped the flowers! They were for Gran and Hermione. The best batch of the season so far. 

Hermione really didn’t have to shut the door in my face and leave me out here. With Snape. Shutting the door in Snape’s face I can understand, but she didn’t even notice me. Of course Hermione does that a lot. Not noticing. Still, that wasn’t very thoughtful of her. I might just carry on sitting here and let her figure out how to cook dinner on her own. 

I suppose I should be more surprised by seeing Harry’s ghost at my door, but I’m not. It’s just, couldn’t he pick a better time to show up? Like when Hermione wasn’t so busy studying for her exams. And did he have to bring Snape with him? That wasn’t very thoughtful of Harry either.

Snape looks smaller than I remember from Hogwarts. But just as dark and grim.

“S-so, P-professor . . .” Err. What else should I say to him? 

“Mr. Longbottom.” He nods. His voice is as deep as ever too, but somehow it doesn’t sound quite as terrifying as it used to, when he loomed over my cauldron in class and the potion in it just boiled over, as if on his command.

“Do you live around here?” Please, don’t live next door! We just settled in. I’d rather not have to look for another flat.

“In London.”

London. That’s far enough. I haven’t been in London since everything that happened. The trip before my last, I found the dummy at Purge &amp; Dowse silent for the first time, and a week after I saw it removed. Muggles opened a record store there instead. Ever since then, the glass in the window was just glass, and nothing else. I knew that, but I wasn’t quite brave enough to touch it to make sure. I wasn’t brave enough to go near that place afterwards. I’ve seen enough of it in my dreams: that place and Mum and Dad, trapped behind the glass, silent, plastic dummies in the window display. Now that I know Snape lives there, it’s another reason not to go to London. I hope he goes back there soon, and stays far, far away from us, because his glare and his silence are as uncomfortable as his Potions class used to be.

“Aren’t you going to go in?”

“No.” Not until Hermione apologises! “Why are you even here?”

He smirks wickedly, as if he asked me a Potions question and I answered wrong and it’s ‘twenty points from Gryffindor!’ “What do you do for a living nowadays, Longbottom?”

“I take care of flowers. At the florist’s.” I stop myself in time from adding ‘sir’.

“Ah, and are you doing well?”

“They haven’t complained yet.”

“I suppose then that your job calls for neither an extraordinary intellect nor the common sense required for other less menial tasks,” Snape snarls. “I can see why you failed to notice that Potter isn’t fit to travel anywhere alone in his current state!”

I mustn’t cringe. He isn’t even my teacher any more. “I’m sure a simple florist like me can never comprehend that, cause I certainly don’t see a single reason why Harry’d ever ask _you_ for help!”

Snape looks amused at my attempt at returning his fire. “Tell me, Longbottom, have you ever had a relative come back as a ghost?”

Err. “No. Gran had met a few though.”

“And do you know how they were treated?”

“I know they usually weren’t welcome.” It’s no wonder so many ghosts ended up at Hogwarts afterwards – I remember Gran saying – if they could somehow make it there from their family’s castles and dungeons and crypts.

“Longbottom,” Snape leans forward, lowering his voice, “if you so much as breathe a word of what I am about to say to anyone – living or dead – you’ll find yourself in more trouble than your insufferable grandmother could ever stir up.”

I nod.

“What Potter feared most was Granger shutting the door in his face. And he had very good reason for that fear. I came here to make sure that didn’t happen.”

Yeah, Hermione shut the door in Snape’s face instead. …Hang on! Did Snape make her mad on purpose? So she’d forget to be shocked at seeing Harry? “Never thought you’d care.”

He hmphs and stretches like a shadow next to the wall; thin and sallow, with black strips of hair hanging over his face, as ugly as the vulture on Gran’s favourite hat. “I don’t. It’s simply an unfortunate circumstance that he has no one else to count on.”

I think about it. In a twisted sort of way it makes a lot of sense. I suppose even the shock of seeing Harry’s ghost would fade in comparison to Snape swooping down like a crow and yelling insults.

I work at the florist’s. And maybe it’s not much by Snape’s standards but most of what I know about life I learned there. I always thought that plants have the right idea about living: grow, seek light, and bloom. They’re a lot less complicated than people. Like people, there’re so many different sorts of plants: tulips and roses and orchids, and even dandelions, and then there’s a prickly cactus that’s never going to bloom, stuck in a plain pot somewhere in the corner.

Even the cactus deserves its place under the sun, no matter how obscure its purpose might be. 

My job is simple. I take care of plants and of people too. It was that way ever since Hogwarts cancelled classes and I went with Hermione when she was sent home. She was crying because she’d just got the news about Ron, and Harry was hidden away somewhere, and everyone else had their own worries. She had no one else to count on. So I said I’d go with her to keep her company, and I did.

Right after our Wizarding Wireless went dead I was so worried I Apparated home: my first real Apparation that I didn’t bugger up. Gran got me out of there before the building collapsed, and I got her back to Reading. Afterwards, no matter how many times I tried, I couldn’t Apparate to St. Mungo’s, but I didn’t feel so bad, cause Gran said she couldn’t either. 

I didn’t realise it that day, but much, much later. No matter how hard I try sometimes, I can’t take care of everyone. I cannot save everyone. 

There was no time to waste crying over something I couldn’t change; I still had so much to do. “I suppose I raised a decent lad after all,” Gran said. “Now find me a new home.” So I got a job, rented a flat, and started a herb garden in the small pots on the window sill. Gran taught herself how to use the telephone and got used to the new radio and she didn’t need much looking after. But when Hermione started Uni classes and offered to be flatmates, she was absolutely hopeless when it came to exam time. She would’ve forgotten to eat for days if I didn’t remind her to have dinner. First she was heart-broken after Ron was gone, and then she was absolutely miserable about her cat. I did my best to help her through.

That’s my purpose, after all. I take care of plants, and occasionally of people. And I can respect others who try to do the same thing. No matter how obscure and prickly they are about it.

“Aren’t you going to go in?” Snape nods toward the closed door.

I shake my head. “No.”

“Why?”

“I’d rather wait. Hermione will eventually notice that I’m gone.” Ha, right. Maybe she’ll cook too.

“Granger’ll never apologise for leaving you here with me. Stop sulking,” Snape says quietly. He sounds almost human.

“Harry won’t ever thank you for looking out for him. He won’t even notice.” Hermione never notices me, no matter how I try. “And he’d only be angry if he did.” 

“I know.” Snape nods, as resigned as if that’s exactly what he’s been expecting all along.

I know it too. When you decide to look after someone, their gratitude is the last thing on your mind.

*

Hermione leads me through to the room filled with potted plants, green and leafy, some in a pot as big as a cauldron, others tiny, planted in teacups with chipped edges. Neville’s Gran is there, with three dusty old hats laid out on the tea table in front of her. She has a heap of something purple and wilted with the same strong flowery smell – lilac – in a small basket and is tying a handful of purple blooms around the rim of one of her hats.

“What’s the lilac for?” I ask her.

“Didn’t you know? It drives away spirits, m’dear! Try it sometime.”

“Err. I’d rather not.” Since I’m one of them now. 

“Well, don’t blame me if you get stuck with a stray ghost or two.”

Hermione winces and motions for me to follow. “Sorry, Harry. Sometimes she gets a bit confused.”

“It’s all right. I sort of worked that out.”

She makes her way through the piles and piles of heavy books in a tiny room the size of a cupboard. I follow her, drifting through the table with the papers piled high on it, and just float there aimlessly as she picks up some books from the chair and sits down. 

It doesn’t take long for all the questions to start. “How’d you find us? Where were you before? Are you staying? What does he mean: magic’s back?” Hermione really hasn’t changed a bit. Still the same know-it-all who can’t stand to leave a question unanswered.

“Whoa, one question at a time! Er. Mrs. Weasley gave us your address. At Hogwarts, and the rest is complicated.”

“No, Harry!” She drops the books in her hands abruptly; they clatter on the floor with a loud thump like bricks and she points at the resulting pile. “That’s complicated. _This_ is mental! Explain yourself!”

I try to read the covers; they’re full of ‘isms’ and roman numerals. I think they’re law books. Either that, or physics; I’m not really sure.

Hermione taps her foot impatiently. I can’t think when she does that! There’s not much to explain. “Well, I’m obviously a ghost. Stayed at Hogwarts until I found Snape. Then I met Ginny and Mrs. Weasley and heard that you live here. That’s all, sort of . . . err, I can walk through walls and float really well now. Great to see you, by the way! How are you doing?”

“No! That’s not ‘sort of’ all! That doesn’t explain why you showed up on my doorstep – without so much as a word in seven years, mind you – with Snape who suddenly declares that magic is back . . .”

“But, Hermione, I already . . .”

“. . . In fact, that doesn’t explain anything. _Is_ the magic really back?” 

I can’t argue with her, never could. It’s better just to tell her all I know. “Yes, it is. And I need help reopening Hogwarts!” 

She blinks. Then stares blankly. Then takes the heavy-framed glasses off and wipes the lenses nervously with her shirt sleeve.

Uhh. Not good. “Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“It’s the truth.”

She sighs and puts the glasses back on and rests her chin on her folded hands. “Start at the beginning. Slowly.” The round, brown-framed glasses make her look a bit like an owl. Or Trelawney! I probably shouldn’t tell her that, cause she’d kill me if she knew. If I wasn’t already a ghost that is. “And please prove to me that there’s at least some sense to your story, because right now I find it hard to believe anything. You’ve been gone for seven years, Harry, and now you’re back like this. Right now, I don’t know what to think, and that alone is reason enough to question my own sanity.”

But she has to believe me! She will, when she hears everything.

And so I tell her about the abandoned castle, even less friendly than Snape’s flat, the way it looked to me at first. The flat was dark and cold and small, but at least someone lived in it, someone who could see and hear me. All I got from Snape at first were silence and insults, but at least he knew that I was around. That I existed. There are some things I don’t tell: about Dumbledore or Snape’s dreams. I tell her about Ginny instead and how she was able to cast _Lumos_ and levitate the teapot. 

And Hermione listens to me. She nods, and smiles, and even wipes an occasional tear in the corner of her eye. She listens! She really pays attention and believes what I say. And it’s like these seven years have never happened at all. But they did happen and there are squibs all over Britain, children with magic are being born and growing up unnoticed, Dumbledore is homeless and couldn’t even see me, Mrs. Weasley works in a restaurant just trying to get by, and Ron isn’t here anymore, and Ginny didn’t really want to talk to me at all, and Snape has bad dreams almost every night and this great big scar across his chest and still carries his wand with him everywhere and refuses to admit that anything is wrong with him and that’s why “We need to reopen Hogwarts!” I tell her. We just have to, isn’t it obvious?

She doesn’t reply for a long time. “I see. Let’s wait until we tell Neville and discuss this logically,” she says.

“You believe me, don’t you?” Please, let her believe. She’s older but she’s still Hermione! How could she not believe me?

“Yes,” she nods, “I think I do.” And then she smiles, the same smile she had as a girl. The way she only smiled with me or Ron, because we didn’t care how her two front teeth looked like and would have never thought to tease her about it. And everything is all right.

“So, you . . . and Neville?” I ask her later. 

“What?” She laughs nervously. “Oh, no. We’re just friends.” 

“Oh.”

“Good friends. He stayed in Reading ever since everything happened. I don’t know what I’d do without him and Gran.”

Right. It’s good to know Hermione had someone to look after her. “So, what’re you doing now?”

She grins. “Studying. Reading. The usual. Should be done reading Law this year.”

“Oh, wow. You’re a lawyer?” She’d make a brilliant one. She’d make a brilliant anything. I think of SPEW and smile at this grown-up lawyer Hermione in her new glasses and with her new books. “Great!”

She sighs and glances at the piled tomes. “Not yet. For all I know, I might not be at all. Oh, Harry! What if I fail?”

I laugh then, ignoring her appalled face. Hermione, she never changes. She knows she’ll ace all the exams and I know it and still she’ll be a nervous wreck until it’s over.

“I want to hear everything,” I tell her. “What’d I miss out on?” And she does tell me everything.

Justin Finch-Fletchley called and Seamus emailed last week. They are doing just fine with their new jobs. And Gran’s a pretty fast typist, who’d’ve thought it? Hermione only figured that out when Gran offered to type a paper for her one day from her notes. She’s been Hermione’s typist ever since. Neville started a small garden in a hidden spot in the surrounding woods, but hasn’t been able to cultivate any magical plants, only Muggle ones. Hermione and Gran have been trying to get the orchids to bloom by his birthday in a couple of months. Hermione has two exams coming up next week and her cousin’s daughter is in the hospital but everyone’s hoping for the best.

“So you’re staying with us then?” Hermione asks out of the blue. “The flat isn’t the biggest in the world, so I guess it’s good that you don’t need much space now. Gran can be irritating but I suppose she won’t be too bad, especially not after you’ve had to put up with Professor Snape.”

Staying here? But . . . I can’t. Not now, not when everything is coming together. I came to visit. I can’t just stay, like this, can I? Course I can! It’s Hermione, and Neville, and I can, and they’d only be happy to take me in.

But why does it have to be now? When magic is back and everything is all right, and it’s finally starting to get warm in Snape’s flat. It is warm, and not just there too. Every time I’m around him I feel it. Energy. Like sun on a plant. And it’s the same kind of warm energy I get next to Hermione, or even Neville. They have it too! 

So does that other warmth even matter? If I really want to stay here, I can. I don’t have to go back with Snape. There’d be more than enough warmth for me in Reading, among Hermione’s books, and Neville’s plants, and Gran’s antique hats. I think Gran even thinks that I’m a living person sometimes. Mrs. Weasley’s flat was colder, but this one is warm, I can feel it. I’ll never be cold next to them, cause they’re my friends and they’ll never ignore me. They care about me. That’s what the warmth means, I know that now. It means people care. And it’s all I ever wanted when I was alone at Hogwarts: to find my friends again.

But what about everything else that I’ve wanted since then: Hogwarts reopened and magic returning and Snape teaching Potions? What about Snape’s bad dreams and all the bottles under his kitchen table and the stack of newspapers next to his window? 

“What is it, Harry?” Hermione’s voice startles me. 

“I can’t.”

“But why?”

Don’t ask me this, Hermione. “We just came to visit. I can’t stay.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I can’t stay. I can, but not for long, only until Snape leaves.” And he’ll probably go back to London tonight. I saw him buy his return ticket myself.

I look at Hermione. She bites her lip. Looks back. “Is it because you have to?”

“No.” Absolutely not!

“Then why?”

Because I can’t just walk away. Because I want it. I’m choosing this; I want to stay with him. But how can I ever explain it to her? She’ll think I’m mental. I can’t even explain it to myself yet.

I try anyway.

“I’d love to. But you’ve got Neville and his Gran. And Snape lives all alone.” I’m afraid that without me he wouldn’t talk to anyone in months. “I don’t know how he survived in London all these years. He still uses candles, and he has these horrible dreams almost every night, and Merlin only knows where he finds money for food.”

“But, Harry, you can’t help him with money. And I hate to say it, but a ghost isn’t exactly the best company for a lonely old man. There’re all kinds of stories about wizards going crazy when . . .”

Why does everyone keep saying that? “I haven’t driven him crazy yet, have I? No more than he’s driven me off my head. And he isn’t old, really! He just seems grumpy and mean because he’s tired of people.”

“So why’d he ever put up with you?”

I don’t know; he just does! “I’m not ‘people’, I suppose. Well, not anymore at least.”

“Oh.” 

Maybe it was the wrong thing to say to her. “It’s all right, really. I’m a ghost now. I’m fine.” 

“Are you?”

“Yes. Just fine! Don’t worry.”

“But I am! I’m surprised that he didn’t find a way to banish you on the same day you arrived.” 

I smile at the memory of Snape trying to ignore me singing in his loo. “He did threaten to banish me in the beginning. He was terrible the first few days. You wouldn’t believe how much talking I had to do just to get him to be normal.”

I don’t think Hermione really believed that one. “_This_ is normal?”

Well, for Snape it is. “He wants me around, I think.”

Her eyes open even wider. “Really?”

“He lets me read his books. And he tells me things.” He played chess with me and taught me to ride a bike. He asked me to stay. Would he do that if he didn’t want me around? “He’s not so bad. Things changed.” All it took was time. He warmed up to the idea. He warmed up to me.

“They did, indeed,” Hermione says softly with the kind of smirk that Snape would have.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t you see?”

“See what?”

“You _like_ him now and it shows.”

Oi! I didn’t expect that. I really don’t know what to say! But then Gran pokes her head in the door, thin-lipped and stern, and saves me at last. “Can anyone explain why my Neville’s been sitting outside our door for the last hour with Severus Snape discussing the cultivation and use of _Cannabis sativa_ of all things?”

Then Hermione gasps and heads for the door and forgets all about me for the moment.

*

Neville shows me all of his plants – he named one after Trevor, silly bloke – and Hermione talks about her parents and her classes, but all I can think about is what Hermione said before, about Snape. That I liked him. Why did she say that? What made her think of it? How’d she notice?

Snape is Snape. Same greasy bastard as he always was and I don’t treat him that different, do I? It’s just, he was there, and I had nowhere else to go, and then he kept having bad dreams, and I couldn’t just sit still and watch him twitch and occasionally mumble something unrecognisable in a hushed, creepy kind of whisper all night. I don’t think he knows that he does that! Course not. He’s asleep, and who’s there to tell him? Only me.

Like Snape said, it was necessary for us to get along. Only, I didn’t do it ‘cause it was necessary. I did it just ‘cause it turned out to be fun. Wasn’t it great to do something once in awhile that would shock the sour git? He’s the only one besides me who can see my dreams. They fascinate him, I can tell. He’s such a bitter bastard that it’s a miracle to get him to stare at something with that flabbergasted look or to show a faint smile. I like surprising him and playing tricks on him in dreams. I even like listening to him, most of the time when he isn’t being an arse. 

I like him. 

Bloody hell! Who’d’ve thought that’d ever happen?

I think he likes me too. Like Hermione does and maybe even more, ‘cause her energy still feels faint and unsure and Snape’s is just there, clear as day. Like a candle flame. Maybe it’s ‘cause I got used to it with time that it got stronger. Maybe it’s ‘cause he got used to me. You wouldn’t expect it’d be so warm, a candle: just a little flickering light, but try holding your hand right above it and it’ll burn you in seconds. That’s how Snape is and – wow – that’s exactly how his energy feels if I just sit still and wait for it and let it reach for me and I probably shouldn’t stare any longer cause it’s rude and he’ll notice.

Oops, too late. Dammit! I have enough problems without being caught ogling the git. Now Hermione’ll think I’m completely mental.

Bet Sirius’d be really upset if he saw me now all friendly with ‘Snivellus’. Bet Dad would’ve been too. And Ron; I can just hear him: ‘Bloody hell, mate. Are you off your chump?’ But they won’t. And I won’t ever get to see them. Ghosts don’t get to meet the dead; I know that better than anyone. No matter how much I hoped to see Mum and Dad and Ron and Sirius right after I first woke up at Hogwarts, I didn’t and I won’t. Wonder what’ll happen to me in a hundred years when everyone I know won’t be around any more? I’ll still be a ghost and I’ll never get to see them again. I don’t have much time; I’ve already wasted so much of it at Hogwarts and hardly even noticed that years went by. Hermione and Neville and Ginny already grew up, and Mrs. Weasley and Snape will only grow older. And I never will grow older like everyone else.

That’s another reason to hurry up and reopen Hogwarts. I’d like to be there, help everyone who is still alive, and see them happy while I still can.

Maybe if I can explain this to Snape, he’ll understand. He thinks it’s impossible. But isn’t it worth trying the impossible if there’s even the slightest chance to make everyone happy? How do we know if it’s impossible anyway if we don’t try?

*

“Magic is back and it’s time to reopen Hogwarts. It’s that simple!”

“Pshaw. Is that all?” Mrs. Longbottom exclaims and I don’t even have a chance to add anything else. 

All? Isn’t it enough?

“Have you heard anything he said?” Snape barks at her. Once in awhile it’s useful to have the grumpy git around, as long as he’s yelling at others and not me.

“I’ve heard him just fine, young man! I’ve also lived through the two Wizarding wars, an epidemic, a fire, at least a dozen generations of Hogwarts students, and raised this clumsy fool. Magic’s returning? That’s lovely, but it isn’t a cause to celebrate just yet.”

“It’s never a time to celebrate. Not until we figure out exactly how far this spreads and how to deal with it,” Hermione cuts in.

“Oh dear,” Neville mutters. “More tea?”

It’s best to stay out of it. Instead I watch Snape sniff at the cup and take his first sip of Neville’s herbal tea. His face turns even sourer than usual and he nearly spits it back out. I suppose that’s a ‘no’.

“Let’s discuss this logically. It might take years, but we can contact most of the survivors. I’ve kept in touch with some people from school. I’m sure they’ll know others. And with everyone’s help we can probably start tracking down those who’ve had kids since then. It won’t be easy, but what else is there to do?”

“Hey, don’t forget about Hogwarts,” I remind Hermione. “All those new kids will need to learn somewhere!”

“Well,” she falters. “Maybe in the future we’d be able to set up some sort of school, a small, private kind. But that would take time.”

Another school? “Why bother? Hogwarts is already there.” And it’s just waiting for us to come back, with all the spell books and magical supplies lying there untouched.

“Harry, it won’t work.” Hermione adds, “You’re probably the only one who can get back to Hogwarts now. The wards wouldn’t let us through.”

“They’ll let the kids through some day, why not try it earlier?” I bet Ginny can do it right now if she tried! She can cast spells just fine!

“It’s too dangerous, Potter. Even if we can find Hogwarts. A handful of squibs in a magical castle in the middle of Forbidden Forest; I wouldn’t give us a day to live.”

What does he know? “Filch survived at Hogwarts for months after everything happened.” And he was all alone after Hagrid died. “If he could . . .”

“And do you realise how many enchantments the Headmaster had to alter especially for him just to allow Argus Filch to enter the castle? Forget it. It’s unsafe.”

“But Ginny can . . .”

“If you so much as suggest this to Miss Weasley, her overprotective mother will find a way to snap your ectoplasmic neck, and after she’s through with you, you’ll still have me to deal with.”

I glare. Snape glares back. Stubborn git! Fine, but I bet Hermione understands. “It’s the only way to get the spell books. And all the other magical things. The kids will need them sooner or later. Think of the library!”

Hermione winces. “Actually I am. Sorry, but Snape’s right. I’m not going anywhere near it until we find a sure way to reverse the protective spells.”

“Why? It can’t be that horrible!” We lived there for seven years. I know that castle like the back of my hand and they do too. “Nothing really bad ever happened to us there. Neville, tell her!”

But he doesn’t. Instead he shakes his head and says softly: “The summer when Gran and I returned here we had to read every word Hermione saw on paper because she couldn’t recognise a single letter for months! I’d rather not do something like that again if I don’t have to.”

What? “Is that true?”

Hermione nods. “It was really frustrating. I spent weeks learning my ABCs. Over and over, and forgetting them the next morning. All because a single overdue book from that library was hexed with a memory charm that I couldn’t shield against or break.”

“But . . . that’s . . .” Suddenly I remember Dudley and his pig tail that had to be removed by a surgeon and how I laughed at him then and how he wasn’t laughing at all.

“That was just one spell, Harry! The kind of spell we would’ve laughed at back at school and removed with a flick of a wand. Think of all the other things that could happen, the wards, the enchantments. Some books in the Restricted Section transfigure their readers into rats or Petrify them or pull them onto the page. There are cabinets that trap people inside for weeks and doors that lead halfway across the globe. That place is ten times as dangerous for us now without our magic.” 

“Oh.” I think of Hermione stubbornly trying to memorise the letters every day knowing that she’d forget them overnight, wondering if the spell that kept her from learning to read again would ever run out. A, B, C . . . She must’ve hated not being able to do something so simple. “Do you still have that library book?”

She nods.

“How could you possibly manage not to return it before you left the castle, Miss Granger?”

“Well, I sort of didn’t have time to see Madam Pince and then forgot that it was in my trunk when I left.” Hermione keeps glancing away from Snape who raises an amused eyebrow at her. “Didn’t notice it until the spell kicked in.”

“Of course. The book must’ve jumped into your trunk completely on its own and made itself invisible for weeks. How convenient.”

Hermione’s face turns bright red. “I meant to owl it back, but I couldn’t after everything happened. Could I?”

“You certainly . . .”

“Which book was it?” I interrupt before Snape can harass her any more.

“_Hogwarts: A History_,” she blurts out. “Hey. Don’t laugh!” 

I’m not! Well, at least I’m not laughing at Hermione. Not exactly at her, just her choice of books.

“You could’ve at least picked a decent Potions text to steal,” Snape mutters, frowning.

She cringes. “Sorry, Professor.”

“Don’t be. You might’ve unknowingly saved a piece of our history for the rest of the world. Well done.”

Hermione smiles as if Snape finally let her answer one of his questions in class but Snape still looks as gloomy as ever. “If you happen to talk to any of my former students, ask them whether they’d be willing to part with their old Potions textbooks, provided they still have any.”

“I’ll do that,” Hermione assures him. 

Wow. I didn’t realise Snape missed Potions so much. I should try and make him a Potions book or two in the next dream. Or even the entire library – without the hexes. Maybe that’ll cheer him up a bit.

*

“Honestly, how can you not have a telephone?” Hermione scolds as she finishes scribbling the street and the number in her notebook. 

“I’ve never had a need for it.” Snape declares loftily.

“But what if I have to talk to Harry?”

I imagine Snape answering her call and trying to hold a phone to my ear with a murderous expression. I don’t think she’d hear me through the phone line anyway. Snape would have to repeat everything I say back to her.

“Write a letter,” he snaps. “I just gave you my address.”

“There has to be a quicker way.” Hermione shakes her head and looks at me hopefully. “Maybe I can summon you here. There must be some sort of a ritual.”

“Well . . .”

“Miss Granger, he is neither an incubus nor a genie; you can’t simply rub an oil lamp and make him appear.” 

Incu . . . what? Oh, thanks! I could’ve done without all those images in my head.

“No, but ghosts aren’t limited by distance, only by their connection with human beings. I bet you Harry could get from London to here in an instant if he had to.”

“Err. I can try. I’m not sure if I can.” The only way I’ve been able to get from one place to another so far is following Snape around.

“Perhaps all you need is some link to act as a gateway. How did you find Snape when you were at Hogwarts in the first place?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think I can do it again.” I was alone in the castle. And all I wanted was to find someone, anyone I could talk to. “I had a dream I guess, and he was in it, and it was his dream as well, and then I was just there.”

“Ghosts don’t dream, Harry.”

“I do!”

“He does, he can enter and modify them according to his wishes.”

“Oh! Well, it’s worth a try. I’ll look into spirit communication, dreams, and hypnosis. Someone has to have done this before,” Hermione shrugs and idly starts turning pages of_Hogwarts: A History_.

“I suggest researching the work of Baron De Sang,” Snape tells her. “It’s the only part of that book worth reading besides the descriptions of the Headless Hunt.”

Hermione gives him a shocked ‘you’ve read _Hogwarts: A History_ from cover to cover’ look and mutters: “Thanks.”

Snape nods. “Page 427, if I’m not mistaken.”

Wait. “Sang who?”

“You’ve been around him for seven years, Potter. Even you can’t be that dim.”

Huh? I look at Hermione for help but she just shrugs: “Honestly, sometimes I wonder if we attended the same school. Don’t you remember?”

“Err.” No!

“Don’t answer, think!” Snape stares mockingly in a way that means ‘it must be exhausting for you to do both things at once’.

Well, sod them! If they’re going to be like this, I’ll find it myself. I peek over Hermione’s shoulder. De Sang . . . Doesn’t sound familiar at all. But from the look of page 427 all he did was research ghosts and ghouls all day long! Poor obsessed bastard! A teacher: he probably taught Divination, like Trelawney. Oh, no, actually History.

And then I see it, right between quotes on Death Day rituals and properties of ectoplasm: ‘Without the constant energy source that magical locations often provide, ghosts can exist by absorbing the emotional energy of a living person.’

Wait, it can’t be! Is that what I’ve been doing all along to Snape? Eating his energy? That bloke is making me sound like a parasite! He’s wrong! I’m not! Snape’s emotions are just as bloody energetic now as they’ve always been; believe me, I know!

I read further. 

‘Never changing and never aging past the date of their demise, monotonous and passive in their habits, ghosts remain the most accurate and valuable witnesses of their time for the present day historians,’ it quotes a few lines down. 

It also says that this bloke later got kicked out of Hogwarts for conjuring up a poltergeist – raised quite a fuss about it too, something about the unexpected by-product of a hex. It says that he wasn’t allowed to step one foot inside Hogwarts all his life after that. But it doesn’t say anything else about the ghosts. 

Is it all there is? Is _this_ all I am now?

Wait a minute. Poltergeist! Peeves. Oh god, he created Peeves! 

Baron . . . The Bloody Baron? It can’t be anyone else! No wonder Peeves was afraid of him. He wrote this? That bastard! And I was almost ready to believe him too! Pity he isn’t at Hogwarts anymore, or I’d find him and show him what I think of it all! And not just for creating that menace Peeves, but for writing bloody stupid things while he was still alive! I’d twist his neck myself and show him how ‘monotonous and passive’ I can be.

I don’t really mean to laugh, but I do. I laugh. At myself and the way – after reading half a page of utter bollocks – that I was almost ready to believe the Bloody Baron about draining energies and never changing and how stupid is that really? I almost believed some prat who conjured up a poltergeist by mistake!

“What?” I stare at Snape and Hermione who share a strange sort of look. Hermione snaps the book shut and gives me a look too, a rather annoyed one. I suppose they’re wondering why I’m laughing all of a sudden. Well, I’ve got an excellent reason to laugh.

“Would you like to keep him, Miss Granger?”

Hermione glances at Snape in surprise, then looks back at me and smiles.

Oi! Wait! Don’t I get a say in anything these days?

*

Hermione looks like Snape when she bends over a book like that. Not this Snape, but the student taking his OWLs in Dumbledore’s pensieve. He looked like he followed the curve of every letter he wrote with his nose. Hermione does the same thing when she reads. Occasionally she turns the page or writes down a few words in her notebook without even looking at it. 

The phone rings. A minute later Neville pokes his head in the room. “Your mum, Hermione.”

Hermione looks up from the book and shakes her head.

Neville frowns and covers the mouthpiece with one hand. “I know, I know. ‘Very sorry, very busy, will make it up to her.’ S’what I told her yesterday, and the day before. She says she might as well adopt me officially, as much as she talks to me instead of you.”

“That’s cause you’re the only person besides her patients who listens to her gossip for hours. If I could do that, I’d still be living at home.”

Neville just shrugs and waits there until Hermione snaps her book closed. “Fine, give it here. I’m starting to think that not having a phone isn’t such a terrible thing.”

She leaves the room and I take her empty space on the couch, across from Snape’s chair. Neville’s Gran sits quietly in the corner fixing a lilac wreath around the rim of her third hat. Hermione’s _Hogwarts: A History_ lies forgotten on the edge of the tea table.

“I still think we should try and get to Hogwarts,” I mutter.

Snape glances at me and looks ready to say something cross, but instead he replies softy: “We can’t, Potter.”

“You spent years there and so did I: and nothing happened to me. Would it be so bad now?”

“We had magic. Wizards fall twenty feet from their broomsticks and walk away with a mere broken wrist, they can regenerate fractured bones and scorched skin tissues much faster than Muggles, they can survive the temporal slice of a botched Apparation without so much as a scar. We do not have a natural resistance to curses and enchantments any more and, what’s worse, we cannot reverse any harm caused by magical objects or by the perimeter wards. We have nothing to protect us. It’s not our world any longer if we can’t keep ourselves safe in it.”

I think of Snape’s Apparation scar. Would that scar be as bad if there was still some magic left in him by the time he splinched? Would it be there at all? But what if: “We know there’re spells and wards and stuff. We can try and avoid them. It shouldn’t be that hard!”

“Consider the worst. Are you willing to take the unnecessary risk of someone getting hurt?”

No, but . . . “I don’t want to give up on Hogwarts.” It’s Hogwarts! It’s been a second home to every one of us for years.

“You aren’t giving up. Some day people will return there, when it’s safe for them to do so. But it won’t be now and it won’t be us.”

I should probably accept that Snape is right. We don’t need to get to Hogwarts. Not really. It might be easier – safer – to stay away. To gather whatever books we can find in the Muggle world instead of trying to break through the wards. What would we find there anyway? Just an old, empty castle full of magical knickknacks and old texts. An unnecessary risk. 

If I was still alive, I’d go and take that risk. No matter what, I’d try to find Hogwarts again. But it’s not my decision to make, not anymore.

When Hermione comes back, she looks like she just got her tests results back and they’re all ‘O’s while she was expecting ‘T’s instead. “What is it?”

“Nothing, really. It’s just . . . my cousin’s little daughter. She fell down and hurt herself yesterday but she’s fine. Mum was delighted.”

“Oh. That’s great!”

“I can’t quite believe it,” Hermione frowns. “She’s just fine!”

“Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No. Well, yes, of course it is, but. You don’t understand. She couldn’t’ve been better so soon! Skull fractures and broken ribs don’t just mend themselves overnight. It was like Skele-Gro. The doctor thinks there was some mistake with the X-rays.”

“How old is she?” Snape barks, pinning Hermione beneath an avid stare.

“Six. We just celebrated her birthday a couple of months ago. Born in . . .”

“The spring of 1999,” he nods.

“Are you saying . . .”

“. . . only that you should keep an eye on that child, Miss Granger.”

“She was born about a year after everything happened,” Hermione wrinkles her forehead, considering something. “But I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. At all. She’s just a normal kid. And my family never even heard of magic before me!”

“It’s nothing conclusive, but magical ability is a genetic trait, for Muggleborns and Purebloods alike. And magical children always have enhanced resistance to injury and disease. I wouldn’t get my hopes up just yet, but it’s too obvious a sign to ignore.”

Oh, sod it. Why don’t they just say it and be done with it? I mean, it’s obvious what it looks like, that . . .

“She’s a witch? Is that what you think?”

“It’s too early to think anything. Is she a blood relative?”

“Yes.”

“Then it can’t be a mere coincidence.”

“Of course! Why didn’t I think of it earlier?” Hermione collapses on the couch with a groan and tosses her glasses on the table. “The Muggleborns! How are we ever going to track down all of them without the Hogwarts roster?”

It all comes down to Hogwarts in the end. I wish they could see that!

“We needn’t track them at all. Leave them out of it. They’d be much better off unaware of their magical skills.”

“What!?” How can he say that? 

“Surely you don’t think otherwise?” Snape hisses. 

He’s wrong! Hermione must see that. I look at her. She shakes her head sadly. “I never thought I’d even consider Salazar Slytherin’s methods: teaching the Purebloods and leaving the Muggleborns behind is . . .”

“We have to do what we must. As more people learn the truth, the ability to cast spells won’t be a gift; it will be a burden of many obligations. Take your relative, for example. There isn’t any bright future waiting for her in the Wizarding world, and you may spare her from hardship.”

“How? By keeping her unaware?”

“Yes. She is fortunate to have such a choice! Make sure you make the right one; you’ll be choosing the rest of her life for her.”

Hermione is quiet for the longest time after that. I wish I could say something to convince her that Snape is wrong, but the truth is, I almost believe that he is right. 

* 

‘What have you two been up to over here?’ I mean to ask, but words don’t come out. Instead I just stare at Snape and Hermione, who’ve found their way through the narrow paths between her book stacks over to the table. 

“So,” Hermione sighs.

“How did he seem to you?”

I should probably pull my head back through the wall and let them be, but Snape asked about me just now, and I know I shouldn’t listen but I can’t help it. 

Hermione shrugs nervously. “Slightly nuts, very stubborn, hair sticking out every direction: he’s just the same Harry as I remember. Back then, he’d probably think that Hogwarts could’ve been reopened too.”

“I’ve been telling him it’s impossible. But when he gets something in his head . . .”

“Yeah, that’s Harry for you. Always attempting the impossible.”

Never thought I’d see Snape and Hermione agreeing with each other! Or discussing _Hogwarts: A History_. It’s bloody disturbing! But not as disturbing as them talking about my well-being.

“Ah. And here I thought all Gryffindors possessed that unfortunate trait.” I can’t see Snape’s face, but from that drawl in his voice I can picture the sarcastic smirk that he’ll be wearing right about now. Oi, watch out, mate, that’s Hermione you’re provoking.

“Be careful, Professor, I might think you have a sense of humour.”

“Be careful yourself, Miss Granger, I might think you have the intellect to understand my jokes.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” she smiles.

“As you wish. What are you planning to do?” Snape’s voice turns grave and so does Hermione’s expression.

“I’ll probably start talking to everyone I know from back then. Find somewhere to meet, to leave messages. Perhaps The Leaky Cauldron would work, everyone knows where it is.”

“You know better than me that the Cauldron is gone. It’s as invisible to us as it is to any Muggle on that street.” 

“Yes.” Hermione grins. “From the front. You didn’t try the back door when you went, did you?”

“Is Tom still there?” Snape gasps; he sounds openly surprised for once.

“Just try it. And take Harry there too. He’d be glad to see someone else he knows.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange.”

“Professor?”

“Yes.”

“Remember my first year at the Quidditch match? You were casting the counter hex and your cloak caught on fire.”

“Quite well. _Incendio_ was it? Isn’t it a few years too late for this dreadful confession?”

“I’ll do it again the Muggle way if I have to,” Hermione’s voice turns steely. “And it’ll be for the right reasons next time. So you better take good care of Harry. Or else I’ll . . .” All of a sudden, she looks much older than I remember, much older than me. Next to Snape, she doesn’t look like his student at all, just someone who grew up long ago talking to an equal. Well, I don’t need her to keep protecting me like a child!

It’s as if he can hear me; he replies coolly, “You should know by now that he is perfectly able to take care of himself.” 

Hermione eyes him. “I see. Still, you’ll make sure that he’s all right, won’t you?”

If Hermione’s voice was steel before, now Snape’s is as level as bedrock: “There’s never been a time that I haven’t.”

*

Snape leaves Reading that evening. I leave with him, just like I told Hermione. It’s been great to see everyone again, but somehow I don’t feel like sticking my head through the train window this time around. 

Snape keeps giving me mocking non-glares. Suspicious git! A full round of those by the time we get to London, and I can’t bloody stand it anymore. “What? I’m fine!”

He hmphs. 

“I am!”

He doesn’t answer, just narrows his eyes and shoots me another sceptical look. 

So he expects me to talk? Well then, I’ll talk. But I’m definitely not going to whine about my troubles like he thinks I will. I don’t have any! “It’s perfect! They looked happy. Hermione has her law books and her studies, and Neville is doing well taking care of everyone, and Gran and Hermione are even growing this fancy orchid for him for his birthday in July.” It’s _my_ birthday in July too, only I don’t have a birthday any more, so I shouldn’t even complain. 

Snape stares at me. It’s rather uncomfortable really, the way he’s looking as if he’s trying to puzzle me out, as if he’s shocked to hear a ghost speaking at all.

“And I’m just here, with nothing to do, not ever again. Potter the Ghost, like I’m some sort of exotic pet: Potter the Pygmy Puff! See, I’d hoped that if I ignored it, tried not to worry, forgot about it, acted normal – then maybe I could pretend that I’m still alive, but I’m bloody not and I never will be again! I won’t have a chance to live anymore, like they can. Cause they grew older and I never did.”

“Potter. Stop there,” Snape barks.

He doesn’t have to yell. I’m not. “What is it?” I ask him flatly. “Afraid to admit I’m right? Or are you just going to chew me out for ‘acting childish’?” I wouldn’t care if he did, not now. It wouldn’t make me any more miserable. “’Cause I’d say I’m stuck that way, wouldn’t you?” I twist my mouth into a smile, but it doesn’t feel like one. It’s too bitter, like one of Snape’s.

He isn’t happy to see me act like him, it looks like. “Stop it. You’re wrong.”

“Don’t lie now. How’s it wrong? My friends have their own place to live and work. They’ll have birthdays every year. They’re already older than me and they’ll just grow older from now on.” That’s the thing, isn’t it? “I won’t ever get to do any of that.” 

“Why do you think that you won’t?” Snape sneers.

“Cause I won’t! It’s the truth.” I won’t ever get a chance to stand across from Snape, look him in the eye and talk to him like Hermione did today, as an adult talking to another adult. He won’t ever see me as an equal: a grown up. How can he? I died before I turned eighteen and he went to school with my father. “Even when they’re a hundred, I’ll still be a boy they went to school with.”

“You’ll never be _just_ a boy, you daft fool,” he says softly. “You haven’t been a boy for a long time.” 

But I am. I knew the truth for awhile. Snape must’ve known it too. So why does he look so surprised to hear it now? Why is he so quick to deny it? “Right! Let me tell you something about ghosts. They don’t grow up!” 

“Grow up? Just because you were barely of age by the time you killed the Dark Lord doesn’t mean that you’ll remain that way for the rest of your existence.”

“Yeah. And I suppose I won’t be seventeen for the next hundred years either!”

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” he hisses. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t change if you want to. No one is forcing you to stay the same.” 

“Course not! In fact, perhaps I should just grow myself a beard and pretend I’m a hundred, like Dumbledore. That’ll solve everything!”

“Listen to me,” he says. And his gaze pins me down and holds me in place and reminds me that there was a time when I was his student and he was the Professor and behind every softly spoken, bitter word was a message, a lecture, a lesson he expected us to understand and learn and use without a single mistake every time. When he spoke like that, Snape forced everyone to listen even if we didn’t want to hear what he had to say. “You’ve gone places, experienced things, just like the rest of us since then. You’ve learned, you’ve changed, and that means you _have_ grown older.”

Older? How can he say that? “Funny. I haven’t noticed growing at all.”

Snape glares down his nose at me, as he always does. I’m never quite sure of what he sees when he glares like that: a student who still didn’t do his homework properly or maybe something else besides that, some other reason to be disappointed. “You might not get any taller, or learn to stay out of trouble, but you are a grown man,” he says at last, and maybe it isn’t disappointment in his eyes after all. “You’ve got twenty-five years worth of memories and experiences. That’s what maturing is. Frankly, I’m relieved to see that after spending all this time under the sun you’re not a complete failure.” 

Funny how much of a difference a few words can make. How much better they can make someone feel. “I guess I was worried – afraid – that people’d see me as nothing but a boy forever.”

“I don’t know where you come up with this nonsense,” Snape declares, “but the young man who found his way to my flat and recreated Hogwarts out of nothing but dreams – oh and by the way single-handedly eliminated the most powerful Dark wizard of our generation – is certainly _not_ a boy.”

“D’you mean that?” I have to make sure!

“Yes.” He turns his head and the corners of his mouth quirk into not-quite-a-smile. “It wasn’t a pleasant task to deal with your adolescence, but I am glad that you’ve grown up, at last.”

“Oh.” Of all things I didn’t expect him to say _this_; of all people I didn’t expect _him_ to say it.

“I see you’re back to your normal monosyllabic self,” he smirks. “It’s a start.”

*

“Why’d you call me a circus freak? That was bloody annoying,” I ask Snape as we turn onto the familiar street. Just a few more blocks and we’ll be home.

He murmurs something I can’t understand and: “It needed to be done.”

“Right! But then you were even worse when you and Hermione started completing each other’s sentences.”

“Maybe that’s because, unlike you, Miss Granger possesses the mental acuity to follow a simple conversation.”

I probably should get mad at him for insulting me, but then I’d have to get mad nearly every time he speaks. “Hermione invited me to stay with them, you know.”

“Ah,” Snape nods, his expression unreadable. “I guessed as much.”

“I told her no.” 

There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Blink and it’s gone. “Whyever for?” he scowls. 

Silly question. “Cause I’m already staying with you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Course not. I want to.”

“You could’ve stayed in Reading!”

“Right. Say what you want, but if I just stayed without warning and you had to come back to London on your own you’d be fuming by now.” I am right, admit it!

He sneers. “I would not.”

Liar. “I know you would. You’d care if I left.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

“Actually I am.”

He narrows his eyes, frowns.

“I know it! It’s warmer in your flat.”

“What does that have to do with _anything_, Mis-ter Potter?”

It’s like Potions class all over again: one mistake and he’ll take points or give detention. But this time he won’t, because I know the right answer. “It’s what that warmth is. I figured it out today. It means you care.”

“Ah, worked it out at last, have you?” he questions with a mocking glance. “Very well, then, if you're so clever, you can visit your friends on your own next time.”

Stubborn git! “Maybe I will!”

“Arrogant pest! Be sure and borrow a copy of _Manners: A History_ when you go!”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” I wave enough fingers in the air in front of Snape to show him what I think.

He gives me a stern look but there’s an amused smirk hiding in the corners of his mouth. “Go away. And don’t return until you learn something from it!”

And then he shuts his front door in my face.

“Oi!” He’s complaining about _my_ manners? “That was rude! Not to mention bloody useless.”

“Pity that,” I hear him grumble through the door.

What’s the greasy bastard trying to prove? The door won’t stop me for a second. I know it, and he does too. Like Hermione said, I like him now. But that doesn’t matter really. What really matters is: I think – I _know_ – that he likes me back. It doesn’t matter what he says.

I know it for sure because it feels warm, even through the door. Warm like holding a hand over a candle flame, and it only grows hotter if I sit still and wait for the energy to flow. I ease my way inside through the thin layer of wood that feels like water seeping into my skin and bones, and the warmth is still there. If I stay still long enough and close my eyes and try to take in all of the borrowed energy that I can, it’s so strong that I can almost pretend I’m alive. That I have blood rushing through my veins and air in my lungs and a body, pulsing all over to the beat of a living heart.

But then I can never completely forget that the heartbeat in my ears isn’t mine. It’s Snape’s. 

  
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Notes:

1.   
Pepper Lane is an actual street near Reading University in Reading, Berkshire. I’ve done a lot of research on that place, but didn’t use a lot of what I found. There is at least one flat complex near Pepper Lane according to a local resident. Depending on the season, you can also find a few announcements about available flats just off Pepper Lane on the web, so I’m assuming there are several of them. The description of the street comes from [**sinick**](http://sinick.livejournal.com/) who was kind enough to take a detour during her Accio! visit.

2.  
The snippet of Oscar Wilde is from his _[Ballad of Reading Gaol](http://emotionalliteracyeducation.com/classic_books_online/rgaol10.htm)_.

_I never saw a man who looked_  
_With such a wistful eye_  
_Upon that little tent of blue_  
_Which prisoners call the sky,_  
_And at every wandering cloud that trailed_  
_Its ravelled fleeces by._

_He did not wring his hands, as do_  
_Those witless men who dare_  
_To try to rear the changeling Hope_  
_In the cave of black Despair:_  
_He only looked upon the sun,_  
_And drank the morning air._

_He did not wring his hands nor weep,_  
_Nor did he peek or pine,_  
_But he drank the air as though it held_  
_Some healthful anodyne;_  
** _With open mouth he drank the sun_ **  
** _As though it had been wine!_ **

The events described in the ballad take place in Reading, of course.

3.  
Lilac. _Syringa vulgaris_  
Plant or scatter Lilac to drive away evil. Place the blooms in a haunted house to help encourage the spirits to move to the next plane of existence.  
[This site](http://databar.com/hemispheres/herball.html) and Augusta Longbottom seem to share the same opinion about lilacs. Harry refuses to believe either of them.

4.  
I’ve been listening to Counting Crows’ [Accidentally in Love](http://www.seeklyrics.com/lyrics/Counting-Crows/Accidentally-In-Love.html) a lot while writing this chapter. Can you tell? 

_So she said: what's the problem, baby? _   
_What's the problem? I don't know . . . well maybe . . ._   
_I'm in love._   
_Love! Think about it! Every time I think about it,_   
_I can't stop thinking 'bout it._

5.  
Sang is French for ‘blood’. While Bloody Baron is an actual character from Harry Potter books, his life as Baron De Sang is a figment of the author’s imagination, so don’t take his research or his creations too seriously now.


	6. A Dream within a Dream

It’s peaceful tonight: dark and quiet. The fresh, open air and the sweet-smelling grass is a welcome change after grimy streets choked in exhaust vapours and factory smoke. The airborne filth of Muggle industrialism lingers everywhere at home: dulling my hair, contaminating my clothes, my books, my very life. How eager I was to escape the squalor of Weston-Super-Mare for the magical world. But flee my tainted heritage as I might, I often feel that no matter where I go I will still reek of Weston-Super-Mare all my life, forever shadowed beneath a cloud of petroleum fumes and clad in a skin of tarry grime. 

I Apparate amid the grey monoliths and pass in between them, walking away from them onto grass, instead of the footpath to the car park. I suppose that even here, at Stonehenge, the world cannot escape from the Muggle invasion. As I walk down the hill, leaving the stones behind me, I also emerge from the illusion of an untouched, purely magical world that the major crossing of ley-lines within the circle had produced. Now, a highway lies before me, carrying with it the usual racket and stench of the city, but I pay it no mind. After exposure throughout my childhood, I have learned to ignore this inconvenience, as if it were an irritating, but ultimately insignificant parasite. Instead I walk toward the primitive gate made of one flat rock supported by two: a slice of Stonehenge separated from the others and moved here centuries ago. I was only able to see it after Lucius altered the Manor wards. 

A cool breeze combs through the short grass and pushes my hair back from my face as I walk through the dolmen and into a different place. Though it’s just as dark on the other side, now the air is warm and humid as a greenhouse, heavy with the fragrance of roses drifting from the garden. Somewhere behind the Manor a nightingale sings.

Far above, constellations stretch and sprawl across the sky, travelling in their familiar arcs. I trace the line from Ursa Major to Polaris, and then my gaze comes to rest on Draco. Lucius particularly likes this constellation. He asked me to find it once as I was writing a first-year Astronomy paper; he watched me look over half the sky for it before he pointed it out with a teasing, superior smirk, the same kind he always uses when talking about his numerous ancestors. Ever since that day I’ve always known exactly where to find Draco: a long scatter of stars whose meanderings reminded the ancient Greeks of a dragon.

What does Lucius see in me? I’m not like him at all. I’m not rich and my parents aren’t famous. Why does he even let me visit him here, in his home; why did he adjust the wards this summer, now that he has my confirmation of what I am? He is ten generations pureblood and a grown wizard with his Manor and his house elves and his fortune. And I’m just a boy from some Muggle town, a boy without a name, without a father. Oh how I wish I could have kept my mother’s surname! At least the Wizarding world would recognise my name then, and no father at all would’ve been better than the one I have. 

But I know better than to wish for something that will never happen. I’m a boy who keeps trailing along after a housemate six years his senior. That’s the way it was for me, throughout my schooling, and it’s naïve of me to think that anything will be different now. In Hogwarts or away from it, I’ll never be anything other than a boy to him.

That’s why I have to go to Vienna. Vienna is my only true chance to prove to Lucius that I am someone else, perhaps someone worthy. If I stay here, I’ll be a nonentity forever. Leaving now is the only way I can ever be his equal. I’ll return after five years of apprenticeship and then I won’t be just some lad with an unrecognisable surname, but an established, maybe even acclaimed, professional. I’ll be the youngest Potions expert ever to receive recognition since that fraud Damocles Belby. And I’ll be able to study the Dark Arts: the real discipline, and not this sorry excuse for a subject that they kept trying to teach us at Hogwarts. We covered doxies and grindylows in our third year, hinkypunks and kelpies in our fourth, boggarts in our fifth and they called it Defence. Ha! I can do so much better than the rest of those fools trying to stay awake through Professor Longbottom’s chatter. I might not have the name necessary to be accepted in certain circles, but I have my knowledge and my skills, and one of the brightest wizards in Europe has offered me an apprenticeship. I only need this one opportunity and then I won’t care about carrying my father’s surname. I’ll make that name mean something in the magical world, all by myself!

I have to go to Vienna. They’ll be waiting for me to owl my confirmation tomorrow at noon and even Mum’s stopped nagging by now about leaving her for five years.

Leaving Britain: that’s what everything comes to. I’ll be gone for a long, long time.

Damnation! I wish there was another way. I wish there was a way to do this without leaving Lucius. Without having to say good-bye to him tonight. Five years! I’ll never manage that long. It’s been a week since I saw him last and already it’s been too long for my liking. How am I going to survive in Vienna without our conversations, without reading countless books in his library waiting for him to return from some jaunt, without him constantly criticising my hair or teasing me that I never smile? In five years everything will change. I’ll be twenty-three and he’ll be almost thirty and for all I’ll know, he’ll finally give in to Mrs. Malfoy’s arguments and marry that impossible Narcissa Black.

I wonder if he misses me as much as I miss him when we don’t see each other; if he’ll miss me while I’m in Vienna. I’d never know if he did. I can’t tell if his mind is the only one strong enough to keep me out, or if deep down I don’t really want to know what he thinks of me after all, but my Legilimency doesn’t work on him. But even without it, I know that he wouldn’t write, or floo – ever – not until five years are up. I’m certain of that. It’s a pity, really. I think that Lucius would like Vienna, Wizarding and Muggle – its sombre streets with apothecary storefronts, its universities and lecture halls and its museums – if he weren’t too stubborn to give in on one of his ultimata just this once. What would he think if I suggested that he Apparate back to Britain every week? He’d probably laugh in my face.

I search my mind for something to say to Lucius as I take the familiar footpath winding through the dark rose maze all the way to the doors of Malfoy Manor. This chance at an apprenticeship in Vienna is incredible: nothing like it has ever happened to me. And it won’t happen again. It’s a brilliant and terrifying thing. 

I wish I could stay. Lucius said that to me once, when his final year at Hogwarts was almost over and I was just a firstie trying to wrap my mind around the fact that the next year when I came back, the prefect who kept the rest of my House from hexing me to bits wouldn’t be there. He took me to the pasture near the Forbidden Forest, past Hagrid’s hut, and together we watched the thestrals, the entire herd, take off and fly all at once. I didn’t see them of course, but I could hear the low thudding of their hoofbeats, then the leathery drum and hiss of their wings, and I could feel the cool rush of them disturbing the air. I told Lucius that it wasn’t fair that he could see them and I couldn’t, and that the next time he knew someone was dying, he should ask me to come and see. He slipped his arm around my shoulders and said that if he ever had a little brother, he hoped that he’d be a bossy and bitter little git just like I am, a terror who’d drive his father to an early grave and leave Lucius in charge of the family estate.

Then my second and my third year went by. I saw Lucius for winter hols and my birthday, and then again, for Easter. During the school year I went to the pasture but never again did I witness the thestrals fly off all at once. I may never have that experience again, but I don’t mind much because without Lucius with me it wouldn’t have been the same.

That’s what this apprenticeship is: a once in a lifetime chance to get close to something brilliant and terrifying, like the thestrals. How can I not want this? How can I even doubt myself? But when I think of everything I’ll be giving up for that chance, I realise that I may not want it after all.

What should I do? I wish that for once Lucius would make the decision easier on me. If he tells me to stay, if he just asks me this once, I’ll stay without a thought. But I know better than to expect him to make anything in my life simple.

No, I’m going to do exactly what I’ve set out to do all along. I’ll walk in there and say my farewells to Lucius, and then I’ll write that blasted letter at last and owl my consent in the morning. That’s the only thing I can do. I know it’s right. Why am I so stunned at the fact that I have to leave? I knew I had to do this sooner or later. I can’t wait any longer. 

I try not to get my robes caught by the barbs on the rose bushes. No matter when I come here, these are the only kind of roses I ever see in the garden mazes of Malfoy Manor: pure white with a bittersweet scent and thorns sharp and strong enough to leave the edges of my cloak in tatters.

I follow the narrow footpath until it ends at the door, and try to keep my hand steady as I raise it to knock. I have to do this. We’ve both changed, and a lot of things have happened since the day two boys stood watching and listening to the thestrals taking flight. I’m not a child any more, and Lucius hasn’t been one for a long, long time. I have to tell him good bye and learn to live my life without constantly walking in his footsteps or waiting for his approval.

*

I haven’t seen this place in Snape’s dreams yet. Usually it’s either the Hogsmeade ruins or the tunnel, and I’m used to both of them by now. But this one’s new. He came in here through some sort of door by the large circle of stones. It looked a bit like pictures of Stonehenge. Maybe it was Stonehenge, who knows?

The footpath winds through a hedge maze made out of rose bushes, and all the way to a dark building several storeys tall. It takes me awhile just to get through the maze, even though I jump over a couple of hedges as a shortcut. Bloody thorns! Snape’s dreams are never comfortable, even if he’s not actually having a nightmare.

I don’t see him anywhere. He must’ve gone inside already.

There’s a door but it’s locked. And the house is huge and quiet and dark except for a faint light in one of the windows on the ground floor by the corner. The room looks like some sort of library, but I can’t tell for sure ‘cause the curtains are almost closed and the window’s too high off the ground for me to see. The light moves and flickers; through the thick glass I can just barely hear the sound of two voices arguing. Then something heavy hits the wall right next to the window and there’s a cry. And another: more of a gasp this time, shocked.

I reckon it’s a fight. It must be. I hope Snape’s not hurt. He’d probably go completely spare if he saw me spying on his dreams again, but how else can I be sure it’s not another one of his nightmares? I’d better make sure he’s all right before I leave.

I’ve got to get in. It was never that hard to get into Snape’s other dreams. But in this one the door’s locked and there’s nothing to climb onto to get in through the windows. In someone else’s dream I’m pretty much powerless. 

By the time I’ve looked around both corners for another way in, the room’s gone completely quiet. Then the door opens. 

“I don’t know that I could ever trust someone who is so unsure of his own decisions. Go and think about it, and _do_ make up your mind,” the voice drawls. It’s not Snape’s voice but I’m sure I’ve heard it before: that bored and haughty tone. 

Lucius Malfoy. Of course! He sounded just like that when I heard him talking to Dobby. I run closer to the door and try to look inside the house: Malfoy Manor, it has to be.

“I’m certain. I’ve told you before. I haven’t changed my mind.” Snape interrupts him. He’s standing in the doorway, skinnier and scruffier than I’ve ever seen him in the real world. His clothes don’t quite fit right and his overgrown, greasy hair is tousled instead of hanging down limply around his ugly nose and furrowed eyebrows. He looks young, my age or maybe even younger: more like the boy taking his OWLs in Snape’s pensieve than the real Snape, the man I know.

“Have you now?” Lucius Malfoy sneers, as though he’s mocking the whole world with every word. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but he sounds like he’s making fun of Snape’s reply. Arrogant prick!

“I have,” Snape’s voice is quiet and determined, and his eyes are large and black and trusting in the wand light. “Good bye,” he adds softly as he steps outside.

Malfoy doesn’t answer him at all. Instead the door slams loudly behind Snape and leaves him startled in the dark, on the doorstep. He even turns around, as if he can’t believe Malfoy really shut him out.

Snape stares at the door for awhile.

This dream doesn’t look like like any of his nightmares I’ve ever seen before, but I’d better hang about for a while, just in case it turns horrid. I sneak closer until I’m standing right behind Snape. It’s a lot like looking at one of his memories in the pensieve, ‘cause this young Snape doesn’t notice me at all.

That’s weird. Why’s he still staring at the door like that? I stand on tiptoe and look over his shoulder to try and see what he’s staring at. 

It’s a heavy door covered in glossy black lacquer, with a silver knob in the shape of a snake’s head. Exactly the sort of door you’d expect Malfoy Manor to have. It’s nothing special. Snape still has his wand lit with _Lumos_ and the light falls just right against it. Like a mirror the shiny surface reflects back Snape’s shocked glare. He lifts his wand and brings it closer to his face.

Oh. I reckon Snape isn’t staring at the door at all: he’s staring at himself, his own reflection. Faded and dark, it’s still recognisable and it’s staring back and looking completely gobsmacked. Snape leans forward, almost bumping his nose against the door. He’s acting as if he’s just noticed that great big nose in the middle of his face: peering at it like he is from every possible angle. Then it looks like he’s decided that it’s not quite so bad after all, if he looks at it straight on and close up. His studying look turns into a smile, awkward and hesitant. It shows the edges of his uneven front teeth and makes his long, beaky nose stick out even further. Wow! He actually smiled, for once without keeping his lips pressed together in a thin line, the way he always does. What did Lucius say to him? The Snape I know’s never smiled like that, not even once.

Snape runs his hand through his hair a few times, trying to slick down the tangled mess, and he’s still grinning. He moves his hand lower, to his collar, unbuttoned at the neck. Finally his smile fades and instead there’s this faraway look in his eyes. I never thought I’d say this, but there’s something about him – his eyes – that reminds me of Parvati, the way she always looked during Lockhart’s lessons. Ron made fun of her all year! 

But this is Snape, not Parvati Patil. And it’s bloody disturbing to imagine him sighing and pining for . . . No! I can’t imagine him sighing and pining for anyone. Even at my age, even after brewing and drinking a full glass of Amorentia on a bet! The only thing he’d ever obsess over would be one of his nasty potions, or some Dark Arts book full of curses and dried spiders between the pages.

But there are no books or potions in this dream of his and Snape’s still staring at Malfoy’s door with that same faraway look, and then he blinks and finally takes his eyes off it and starts fiddling with his collar again. But he doesn’t button it. Instead he pulls it even wider apart, baring his neck completely, and his face is still dreamy and gobsmacked and a bit smug. He turns around, and when his hand lowers from his neck I can finally see what his fingers had covered before.

A bruise. Small, but definitely there. Just like the one Ron had in sixth year, when he stumbled into the dorm at four in the morning grinning from ear to ear and wouldn’t say a word, but when Seamus asked him about his precious Lav-lav his face went so red I couldn’t even see his freckles. He refused to use Healing charms on the mark even though we teased him for days.

But that was Ron, and this . . . this is Snape! I can’t bloody believe it! 

Snape walks down the front stairs and heads towards the garden path. It’s just as well he can’t see me, cause I bet I look like a right prat standing here and staring at his back. But I can’t stop staring. He reaches the middle of the hedge maze and then stops and turns around. All of a sudden he takes a wild leap over the nearest hedge and sprints back toward me. Wow! Is this really how Snape was when he was young? Skinny and awkward and leggy as a colt with his tangled mane of greasy hair flying all around his face. He’s so eager to get back here, it’s a wonder he doesn’t trip over his own feet. I never thought he could move this fast at all. He’s wide-eyed and short of breath as he races back up the front steps and starts pounding on the door.

“Lucius, let me in! I’ve made up my mind.”

Bloody hell!

Wonder what Snape’d say if I pull him out of this dream right now! ‘Cause that’s what I want to do. I can’t leave him here. Should I? Oh, sod it, this is mental! I should leave him alone before he notices me, ‘cause if he does then there’s gonna be hell to pay. Should’ve left a long time ago. I can still leave. I’ll just let him go back to the manor, back to Malfoy and . . . and . . . bloody hell! I’ve got to get him out of this before Malfoy opens the door. No! This isn’t a nightmare. Since when did I start acting like Mrs. Weasley? Next thing I know, I’ll be sending him a howler for staying out past his bedtime. Why am I so worried? It’s just a dream.

The pounding stops. 

Snape turns around and he isn’t a young bloke any more. He’s back to normal. His collar is buttoned all the way up now and he looks just like he always does. Same beaky nose and sour grimace, but it’s much more intimidating now than on his younger self: something in his face and his stance and the way he glares down his nose. For once, even though he’s alone and I never was a prefect, I feel like someone who’s just walked in on a couple of seventh-years snogging in some deserted corner of the library. I never realised until now how awkward it must’ve felt to catch people, as well as getting caught yourself. Hermione always whinged about it in sixth year but Ron and I just laughed. 

“Potter!” Snape rakes the night with a sharp, glowering stare. “Show yourself!”

I flinch: he doesn’t have to yell so loud. How’d he know I was here anyway? I think of getting out of his dream, but it’s too late. If he already suspects me, I’ll never convince him otherwise. Better get this over with now. 

When I appear he spots me right away and gives me the iciest look. “Did you see enough?” he snarls. 

Did I see? _Did_ I! Enough to have far too much of an idea of what I didn’t see. And I won’t pretend I’m OK with it just ‘cause Snape is mad at me. “Yeah, I saw you. With Malfoy! I don’t bloody BELIEVE it! What were you doing in there?”

His eyes narrow. “What do you _think_ I was doing? Playing Exploding Snap?” he spits.

“I didn’t _want_ to think anything about it!” I just thought they were fighting. What else was I supposed to think? Not with Malfoy. “But now I _am_ thinking about it and ugh!”

His face turns cold and indifferent. “Dear me.” He raises an eyebrow and examines me like something he’s about to stew in a cauldron. “Were you repulsed by witnessing something you weren’t supposed to in the first place?”

“No! YES!” Honestly! Did it have to be a snobbish, scheming bastard like Malfoy? Snape could’ve at least found someone who wouldn’t slam a door in his face. Someone who wouldn’t put a Dark Mark on his arm; didn’t he say that Malfoy initiated him into the Death Eaters? How could he have been so blind? “It’s Lucius Bloody MALFOY! What were you thinking?”

I stare at him; I just don’t get him at all. He’s good about rationalising things – or so I used to think before tonight – so I want an answer from him: some sort of explanation so I’ll stop feeling like the world’s turned upside-down. But he doesn’t say anything, though his anger seems to fade, shifting to thoughtfulness; his stare slips from me to the ground. At last, he mutters, “I wasn’t,” and just for a moment he looks as shocked at having admitted that as I know I am at hearing it.

“What?”

“I wasn’t thinking. All right?” he snaps, lifting his hand to his eyes, frowning and rubbing his forehead. “I was beyond any trace of sensible thought at the time, or hadn’t you noticed?”

With his slumped shoulders and empty look, Snape seems almost guilty, defeated. I’ve never seen him like this. He probably hates that I found him in this dream at all. The grumpy git never could stand being ridiculed or put on display. “Er, yeah,” I reply, quieter, awkward. “S’fine. Really.” It happened years ago, and who doesn’t make a fool of himself occasionally? I’m a fine one to talk! I think back to fourth year and can’t help smiling. “One time I had it bad for this Ravenclaw girl and acted like a right berk for months. Nothing _that_ bad but . . .” at least she never treated me like dirt.

“Potter!” he barks and I wince and forget what I was about to say next. Obviously what I said before didn’t work too well at calming him down.

“What?” What’d I do wrong?

I almost expect him to yell or tell me to leave him alone but he only stares – not at me ‘cause the look in his eyes is empty and distant and it’s as if he doesn’t see me at all. At last, he bites out, “Drop it.” 

Oi! “Or what?” I’m only trying to understand! And what’s he going to do to me if I refuse? I won’t give in that easy. Let him glare!

Snape looks like he’s about to say something harsh or important, but he doesn’t and we just stare at each other in the dark. He blinks first and looks around at the trees and the roses, and at the door with the silver knob that looks like a snake. Quickly he backs away from me and the door, as if he expects it to bite him, which wouldn’t be surprising. It’s Malfoy Manor after all.

“Nothing,” he mutters with a brief shake of his head. “Get me out. I have no wish to stay here any longer.” He crosses his arms and his fingers dig hard into his forearms.

I know better than to offer him my hand like I did in the tunnel. It’ll take more time, but I’d rather try harder to dissolve this dream than get close to him when he’s like this.

*

It’s barely four in the morning and I’m still weary, but sleep is the last thing I need. Not with Lucius invading my dreams. Not with Harry watching him do so.

What did the whelp expect? Apparently not this. Not the sight of me obsessing over Lucius like the last fool on earth. Lucius: the biggest mistake of my youth, the wrong that gave rise to so many others, the error so tragic and so treasured that I had to repeat it over and over without learning my lesson. I wonder how different my life would’ve been if I’d managed to stop chasing after Luce for just long enough to see reason amid the allure of endorphin-induced dreams; if I’d gone to Vienna after all.

Enough! I’ve had enough of this madness in my past; enough of dreams, of unreachable places and unattainable people. I was obsessed; I wasn’t thinking. I recall Harry’s reply to that admission of mine, the mockery behind his overdone guilelessness. No! Enough of that as well. What did I expect from him: surely not understanding?

I head for the kitchen, fill a pot with water, light the stove. I move silently around the room, lit only by the blue glow of the gas flames, getting out two slices of bread and measuring two spoonfuls of ground coffee. I stand at the window, watching the darkness outside turn into a bleak light-grey haze, until I hear the water bubbling, then I stir sugar and milk into my coffee and inhale the smell of toasting bread. This is my life, the mundane reality that I must hold onto if I wish to stay sane. 

The next time I turn around, Harry is sitting on his usual chair. “Good morning,” he mutters, caution and anxiety clear in his expression. I knew he’d turn up sooner or later. In some ways, my kitchen is Switzerland or the Forbidden Forest during the last days of the war: neutral ground. Very well, then, it’s a truce. I drop a black and smoking square of toast onto a plate and set it in front of him. 

He blinks at it, as surprised as if I’d burned it with an _Incendio_.

“Morning, Mister Potter,” I reply, but only after I’ve turned away, hiding my face from him.

He is silent. He remains silent as I butter my own piece of toast, as I sit down across from him with a hot cup of coffee and a plate. I continue to observe him through the steam rising of my coffee cup and he still doesn’t speak. Instead he bends his head over his toast, revelling in the bitter smoke spreading through the kitchen. I am wasting food on a ghost, a sensible, sarcastic voice in my head whispers, just as I’m wasting my time and my trust. But I stopped listening to that voice ages ago; when it comes to Harry, it never says anything that I want to hear.

I think of the first time I saw Harry sitting here, with his elbows running through the tabletop and his chair pushed in too far. Right now his chair is a comfortable distance from the table’s edge – I’ve left it that way for a while now – and Harry’s transparent hands are curled around his plate of toast like a young lion’s overlarge paws protecting his food. 

There hasn’t been a time in decades when I’ve had breakfast with anyone else for company. Anyone apart from Harry. I won’t count Minerva, chattering at Hogwarts’ high table with anyone and everyone who cared to sit next to her, or Albus offering me the blackcurrant jam. I won’t count Lupin showing up out of the blue at Spinner’s End on occasional mornings or evenings, looking starved and haunted, bringing with him the stench of sewers and of beasts – his kind – until I no longer wanted breakfast at all. No, I can’t recall a morning when I’ve sat and had breakfast with someone else, not since I was a boy. It’s been too long since I had anything resembling family. So, now that I think in those terms, perhaps filling my kitchen with smoke every morning is worth having someone like him around.

Harry doesn’t talk. Occasionally he gives me a curious look when he thinks I’m not watching. There’s obviously something on his mind, and I’m afraid I know precisely what it is. There’s no sense in putting it off; better to get this over and done. “If you have questions, I’d rather you ask them now.”

He glances up from his black square of toast and for the first time this morning looks me directly in the eye. “Why Malfoy?” he asks.

Harry does that a lot. He just looks up and asks a question as if he honestly expects me to believe that he cannot comprehend the answer. “Is this your way of mocking me?” I have to be sure.

“Is that what you thought I was doing!? You did, didn’t you? Paranoid git.” He shakes his head. It sends his unruly hair flying. “I’m only trying to understand,” he assures me earnestly, “Why him?”

He seems sincere enough. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps he truly wants to hear my reasons, but how can I explain them to him, when I can’t really explain them to myself? “I can’t give you an answer.”

“Why not?”

“The world would be much easier to live in, if we could choose the object of our affection according to logic.”

Harry blinks and stares at me. It seems I’ve managed to surprise him. “Yeah, I reckon it would,” he finally agrees. “I never had a chance to really figure that out before I died, but of course it’d be simpler.” He nods and understanding gleams in his eyes. “I s’pose I just… I never could picture you liking anyone when you were my age, or anyone liking you back. You looked like the sort of bloke who spent all your time at school with your nose in a book or trying to avoid bullies, so why would it be any different after Hogwarts?”

“Indeed.” I give him my iciest glare. He’s strayed too close to the truth for my liking.

“And then you go off to Malfoy Manor and snog the owner,” Harry continues, with a bemused headshake. “Honestly, what were you thinking?”

I thought we’d established that already! I wasn’t thinking at all. The most thinking I could manage whenever I was with Lucius in those days, was something like ‘Yes! Again!’ Doesn’t Harry realise that? “Potter, I’ve already had a mother; one was quite enough for one lifetime. I don’t need another one to lecture me on sensibility and conscience.” I especially don’t need Harry of all people to mother me. 

“M’not!” He pauses, blinks. “Oh, hell, I am. Sorry!”

“For someone who’s ‘only trying to understand’, you aren’t making that much effort,” I try to keep the displeased grimace on my face.

“So what happened after?” Harry interrupts.

“After what?”

“After you went back in there.”

Prying imp! “Would you like me to describe my actions step by step in chronological order?”

My inquiry has the desired effect. He looks down and spends the next few seconds inspecting the charred toast on his plate and his own hands. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” he mumbles, “Not right after. Just later.”

“Quite a lot happened,” I tell him, the memories of that summer still fresh in my mind after all this time. “I reconsidered many things. My mother was satisfied. She owled Lucius a thank you note for talking me out of leaving. I never went to Vienna.”

“Where?” Harry interrupts.

“That’s where I always wanted to go after Hogwarts. I was offered an apprenticeship in Vienna.” But I joined the Death Eaters instead; Mum wasn’t nearly so happy about that.

“Oh,” Harry frowns. “I know so little about you, it’s a bit shocking when I learn too much at once. Lucius Malfoy, Vienna, and I didn’t even realise you had a mum until now.”

I raise an eyebrow at that. Did he think that I hatched out of a basilisk egg, or was conceived in an alchemical flask like an homunculus?

But before I can say something suitably sarcastic he’s already nattering on. “What am I saying? ‘Course you had one,” he cries. “What’s her name?”

I inspect my almost empty coffee cup and my untouched piece of toast before looking up. “Eileen,” It’s a name I haven’t heard spoken in years. “Eileen Prince.”

*

“Tired of reading already?” I ask, after I’ve grown tired of watching Harry floating in aimless circles around the tall stack of books I left for him, without sparing any of them a second glance.

“What?” he turns and looks at me quizzically. “Oh. No. Tired of turning pages, more like. S’not that easy, y’know.”

“Very well,” I sigh and pick up the book on the top of the stack, “but don’t expect me to do this every day.”

“Do what?”

“What do you think?” I arch an eyebrow at him and flip to the right page. I begin reading a story about the American Minister who came to England with his family and very foolishly bought a haunted property by the name of Canterville Chase.

Harry settles down on the floor at my feet. He seems interested enough by the tale of a cranky old apparition haunting a mansion suddenly invaded by a noisy family from the States. I suspected that Harry would like the Canterville Ghost. That’s why I left out the book of Wilde’s short stories for him in the first place.

Once in a while, when I read yet another of the Ghost’s antics, Harry gives me a cautious glance: ‘hope you don’t think I’m like that!’ 

He certainly isn’t like the story’s Ghost, and I doubt he will be even if he lives to be three hundred, although I cannot help but slip into Harry’s hurried, energetic and slurred manner of speaking when I read another of Wilde’s characters. I recall Harry in one of the first dreamscapes that I ever saw – the Hogwarts entrance with its twin gargoyle statues and the sunset – and remember him complaining of spiders and moths at the castle. I remember him in my flat, going on and on about something or other: magic or Hogwarts or the horror of my company most likely, always arguing, and accusing, and protesting against every bit of common sense. After those memories, the needed tone of voice comes to me almost naturally: “‘Stop!’ cried Virginia, stamping her foot, ‘it is you who are rude, and horrid, and vulgar and as for dishonesty, you know you stole the paints out of my box to try and furbish up that ridiculous blood-stain in the library.’” 

Harry catches onto my plan swiftly. He stares in recognition as his mouth forms a surprised ‘o’. I just smirk and continue the act. “First you took all my reds, including the vermillion, and I couldn’t do any more sunsets, then you took the emerald-green and the chrome-yellow, and finally I had nothing left but indigo and Chinese white, and could only do moonlight scenes, which are always depressing to look at, and not at all easy to paint,” I conclude, slurring the words together and speaking the entire line on a single breath, like Harry would.

He gives me a rather wicked glare and jumps up from the floor. Then he pokes his nose over my shoulder and starts searching for the next sentence on the page. It doesn’t take him long.

“It is a very difficult thing to get real blood nowadays,” he enunciates every consonant, assigning the Canterville Ghost a mediocre copy of my own sardonic drawl, the one I always employed to scare some sense into my students. He even raises an eyebrow and puts a spiteful sneer on his face. “‘And, as your brother began it all with his Paragon Detergent, I certainly saw no reason why I should not have your paints. As for colour, that is always a matter of taste: the Cantervilles have blue blood, for instance, the very bluest in England; but I know you Americans don’t care for things of this kind.’”

I wonder if this is what Harry thinks me to be: a pureblood wizard with a pureblood set of mind. He must: how else would he ever rationalise my consent to the Dark Mark on my arm? Harry ends his performance and plops down on the floor again with a satisfied grin. Impossible brat! Now it’s a matter of carrying on the competition.

I continue reading Virginia’s advice to the Ghost on immigrating to the States, making it sound like Harry’s foolish ideas of reopening Hogwarts. “No ruins! No curiosities!” he mocks in his turn the horrors of America, doing a rather good impression of my critical tone. “You have your navy and your manners.” It’s just the same.

“Indeed.” The Ghost is right. “Dreadfully appalling manners they are,” I say pointedly. Americans certainly aren’t the only ones to have those.

“Oi! That’s not in the text!” he protests, with a stubborn scowl.

I snap the book shut and arch an eyebrow at the insolent fool in silence until he gives in and mumbles “Go on then. What’s next?”

I test his patience for a while longer, but afterwards I do continue reading the story, coming to the part describing the Ghost’s dream, a dream of someone who hasn’t had a moment’s sleep in three hundred years.

“Far away beyond the pinewoods,” I keep my voice low and soft at the description of the Garden. “There the grass grows long and deep, there are the great white stars of the hemlock flower, there the nightingale sings all night long. All night long he sings, and the cold, crystal moon looks down, and the yew-tree spreads out its giant arms over the sleepers.”

All the while I watch Harry’s face as it grows sombre and thoughtful as his imagination completes the image of the Garden of Death in his mind. Years ago, when I read this passage for the first time, I pictured the Garden as lying beyond the outer wards of Malfoy Manor, where the endless rose mazes gave way to the hemlock and the yew-trees: a hidden sanctuary somewhere in the distance where the nightingale always sang. The impressionable mind of the eighteen-year-old imbued his visions of it with his idealistic and dream-like state at the time, but these days I could hardly care less for the way it looks. I do, however, continue to think with longing of a place that is quiet and dark and calm. I wonder if Harry has his own version of the Garden in his mind, if he even wants to find it waiting for him at the end, as much as I wait for its comfort. “To have no yesterday, and no tomorrow. To forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace,” I read to him as the Ghost pleads with Virginia to help him find and open the Garden’s gate, to let him have his eternal rest at last. “For Love is always with you, and Love is stronger than Death is.”

“S’nice to listen to you read,” Harry murmurs when I finish the story and close the cover. He is stretched out on the floor with his hands folded behind his head and his eyes closed. “You’ve got a good voice.”

I take my time finding the right place on the shelf for the book. “As I said, don’t expect me to do it every day,” I mutter. But there’s no way to ignore that content smile lingering on Harry’s lips. Suddenly I find myself seeking out other books that Harry might enjoy hearing, but not now: later, perhaps tomorrow.

*

I wake up in the middle of the night in my own bed under the rough woollen blanket. The lumpy pillow in its ragged pillowcase holds the humid warmth of my breath and the scent of my hair. The feel of its threadbare cloth is so familiar pressed against my cheek.

I feel tired – and that’s nothing new, I often do – but tonight I do not feel awake.

I lift my head. The room is silent, with its rows upon rows of dusty books filling the shelves that line the walls. Here is the Selected Works of Oscar Wilde that I inserted back in its place just a few hours ago. Tracks of wax from the burnt-out candles stain the floor and the arms of the old leather chair. Not one of the candles is burning, but the room is lit all the same: by the pale glow spilling from the windows of the nearby building, the street lights, and the moon, a large yellow sphere. So bright that it seems one could easily turn it off simply by flipping the right switch.

I never draw the curtains apart far enough to let in so much light, but now they are completely gone. The window frame is exposed and the wall looks empty, except for the scratches and cracks that spread unconcealed across its surface.

Harry huddles in my leather chair, with his feet pulled up and his chin resting on one knee. In the glow from the bared window it’s easy to see that his form is solid. It blocks the light completely. Even the shadow he casts on the floor seems alive, a moving and breathing creature, the tangled mess of limbs and unruly hair – something with a body and a beating heart.

Nothing of this is real, and I’m in another one of Harry’s dreamscapes.

I come closer. There is something different about him tonight. Is it his glasses? His hair? No. His usual clothes are gone and instead he is wrapped in black from head to toe, and it looks awkward and bulky on his skinny form. His attire looks like a cassock or suspiciously like my own old teaching robes.

“What is the meaning of this?” I’m not amused at all by his mockery and I make sure that my tone shows it. 

He shrugs. “M’just trying to understand.” He slides a hand over the front of his new robes; the movement is as fumbling and uncertain as a worldly man trying to comprehend the ascetic vows of a priest.

“Understand what?”

“You. Thought this might help.”

Is he still shocked by what he saw spying on my dreams? “I already told you, I wasn’t thinking.”

“No,” he shakes his head, quick and emphatic. “_That_ I understand just fine. It’s what happened after. You were so . . . normal when you were my age. You smiled: a real smile, not like you do now. And you made mistakes like any of us. And you jumped over rose bushes and tripped over your feet. And now you’re . . . you. What happened?”

“It’s called aging. Be glad you never had to put up with it.”

“Oi! Just that?” he looks up and narrows his eyes at me. “Funny, I don’t see myself gaining a couple of decades and being a bitter bastard about it.”

And then, as if to illustrate his point, Harry’s face transforms in the light from the window, sudden and swift as an overdose of Aging Potion. The shadows and planes of his face become harsher, more prominent. Wrinkles fan out from the corners of his eyes and mouth and stretch across his forehead. His hair hangs limply around his aged face, with more than a trace of silver amid the black. He looks older than me now; only his eyes are the same, vivid despite his glasses. He smiles faintly. “S’just a face, see? Old, new, doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t suit him at all. “Whatever you were trying to prove with this charade, you’ve failed.” I scowl. “Don’t disfigure yourself like that again.”

He sighs and discards this aged face for his usual features with one quick motion of his hand, like a glamour spell or a mask. “You always do this! For once, can’t you say something like ‘That’s brilliant, Harry! Let’s see another one.’?” 

“Potter, this is absurd,” I sneer, trying to ignore the disappointment written plainly on his face. It’s just another one of his tricks, that’s all. “At least make it believable,” I grumble under my breath, trying not to make it sound so apologetic. “Your father had already begun to go bald at twenty. What makes you think genetics would’ve spared you?”

“You’re just saying so ‘cause he was a school bully and you hated him,” he mutters as his hands lift to slick back his fringe. A second later he looks up at me with my own face, pressing his lips together in a thin line and mimicking my most irritated expression. “I know what you’re doing. Stop avoiding the question! I still want to know what happened. I want to understand what made you this bitter.”

It’s disturbing to hear my own voice, to see my own double sitting in my chair: long limbs and sharp angles and dull black hair hanging down the sides of my face. Harry’s mannerisms still remain in the subtle tilt of his head and the way he keeps trying to arrange his feet on the floor and stop his hands from moving restlessly about.

So he wants to figure me out. Perhaps he is especially bored tonight and I’ve presented a challenge. Or perhaps even – although I don’t dare to hope – he really wants to understand me just as he claimed. It doesn’t matter. It’s only the past. When I was a boy I dreamed like a boy, but then I awoke from pretty dreams and grew up. These awakenings can be cruel sometimes; always they transform us beyond recognition.

“Roll up your left sleeve,” I tell him quickly, before I change my mind. He does, displaying pale skin marked only by the pattern of veins and sinews beneath. It’s just as I expected. Wordlessly I roll up my own sleeve to reveal my Dark Mark, faded but still visible, etched into my left forearm since I was eighteen. “You may keep trying to comprehend what changed me,” I inform him gravely, “You may even think you understand. But you won’t ever _know_.” How can he? “You copied my external trivialities – my face, my voice, my build – well enough to do you credit for observation, but you didn’t even remember the essential truths about me: that I was a Death Eater, that I will be Marked by that allegiance forever. I cannot allow myself the luxury of such forgetfulness.”

He remains silent, staring at my exposed forearm and tracing the contours of a non-existent mark on his own.

“Let me know when you are tired of imitating me, yourself, but most of all that fraud Nymphadora Tonks. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“No, wait, don’t go!” he cries, with his own voice and his own face this time. “Here, you can have your chair back.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Stubborn git!” He jumps up and motions at the empty seat. “Here!” 

With a shake of my head I turn and walk to the bared window instead, crossing the creaky floorboards. My room is deceptively familiar, yet seeing the lack of curtains is as disorienting as seeing Harry’s face stretch without warning into my own. Whatever reasons he had for creating this particular dreamscape, I don’t like them already.

He stands behind my chair, arms crossed over the head rest, staring through the glass. Somewhere from the darkness below I hear a train whistle. Soon enough it comes rushing along the tracks with the usual racket and roar and passes at full speed, leaving us in silence once again.

“Funny, I used to think if people had magic they could make all their dreams come true,” Harry says suddenly in that silence. “Then I came to Hogwarts and learned it wasn’t that simple.” He blinks and his face turns serious, thoughtful. “If you could have anything, what would you want?”

What wouldn’t I want? “Reassurance, I suppose.”

“Reassurance?” 

“Yes. That at the very end I’ll be able to forget time, to forgive life, to be at peace.” 

He remains silent for a while, as if trying to decipher my answer. “Like the Garden?”

Precisely, like the Garden. “Whatever happens to me tomorrow, I want to know that I’ll find rest after it’s all over. Certainty can be comforting.”

“It doesn’t seem very comforting to me,” he frowns at my words. “Seems lonely.”

Sometimes it is, but so is life. “What would you want?” I interrupt before Harry has a chance to expand on his words. I don’t want to discuss my answer any further.

He blinks and furrows his eyebrows, considering the question. At last, just after I’ve concluded that he won’t answer at all, he replies, and there’s a pang of desperate sincerity in his voice. “A second chance. At life.”

Life! Daydreaming fool! He shouldn’t hold on to these false hopes. They will only hurt him when he finally realises they are impossible.

He doesn’t give me a chance to say a word. “I know,” he nods and smiles sadly. “It’s OK. I know it won’t ever happen, but that can’t stop me from wanting it. I can’t help it.”

I don’t have anything to say in return. I wish he were alive as well. I wish he had that second chance to live. But there isn’t anything I can say or do that would help. I look around instead and narrow my eyes at the bare window. “Is there a reason why my curtains are missing?”

“Yeah. Look,” Harry comes to stand next to me and waves at the view outside.

“Where?”

“Just look,” he nods at the window. “Want to show you something. Look at the lights.”

“Any in particular?”

“Just all of them, I s’pose. I watch them from the kitchen window a lot when you’re asleep.” Harry points at the glitter of lights to the left of us in the distance: highways and buildings and traffic lights in the busy part of the city where the people keep awake all through the night and the noise from the cars and the trains never dies down. I look to the right instead where the nearby building across the alley still has several dimly lit windows, glowing faint yellow against the black mass.

“S’a brilliant view, innit?” Harry slurs absently, with a pensive smile and a faraway look in his eyes. “Makes you think. Each light, each window’s a home to someone. I can’t even count all those little lights. And the people behind them: all living their own, different lives out there. Ever wondered what all those people’re thinking or doing? What they’re like?”

I never really cared about other people. I had enough of my own worries and I am perfectly content to shield myself from the world with my curtains. If some impressionable young fool somewhere in the city looked at my own window wondering what kind of person lives here, he’d see nothing but the dark, empty square. Candles do not put out much light and the curtains keep that light inside. And that’s exactly the way I prefer it to be.

“S’all connected,” Harry murmurs over my shoulder. “Places and people are alike, ever noticed that? Makes you wonder if people find just the right places for themselves wherever they go.”

What? I turn my head slightly and catch a glimpse of messy hair and half-moon glasses shining right next to me in the dark. “You aren’t making any sense.”

“S’true! Weird sometimes, but true.” he mumbles. “Think about it. Remember the wall mosaic at the tube station where Dumbledore was? Didn’t it remind you of Fawkes, all yellow and red and with wings like a phoenix? That can’t be just a coincidence. Out of all the walls in all the tube stations Dumbledore picked that one! It’s like he knew it was the right place.”

“Dumbledore has always been rather unconventional.”

“It’s not just him. Mrs. Weasley works in a pub that even smells like her kitchen at the Burrow and their flat building matches Ginny’s hair. S’funny Ginny always said she didn’t like Quidditch as much as she liked heights and now she lives on the very top. Or take Reading for example. Pepper Lane looks like one giant Greenhouse. Neville must feel right at home there and so would Hermione, so close to Uni. She always wanted to go to Uni after Hogwarts, even though there weren’t any in Britain that taught magic.”

“I imagine that no matter where we go, we’ll always find something that fits some aspect of ourselves.”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “Maybe I’m wrong, but don’t you think it looks like there’s something else behind it all? Some greater purpose?”

Harry is rambling without sense or reason, as usual, but I don’t stop him. It’s soothing to listen to him natter at times. The distant lights in the window and his calm voice, almost a whisper, remind me of another dream: the one with the boat sliding across the lake toward Hogwarts and a multitude of lights swirling above us.

“I always thought this place is a lot like you,” Harry says.

Really? “In what way?”

“It’s dark and plain,” he waves his hands around with his usual energetic imprecision. “No pictures on the wall. Not even a knickknack on the table: nothing of yours. Take away your candles, books, and bottles and it’d look completely bare.” 

Harry is right, but I never felt a need to fill my home with unnecessary trinkets. He steps closer and leans against the windowsill, staring off to the distance with a faraway look.

“When I hear the trains sometimes I think you’re just passing through. Resting here after a long journey and waiting for your train to arrive. And when it finally comes you’ll leave and never come back. Is that why you picked this place?” he asks suddenly. “’Cause you want to leave it one day?”

Sometimes he worries too much. “No.”

“Good! I wouldn’t want you to leave.” he nods, and adds hastily after a few seconds of silence “If you ever do, can I come with you?” 

Persistent brat. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“S’fine with me,” he grins. “But still, can I?”

“You _may_.” I should hope that he ‘can’ but that’s not really the question, is it?

He mutters a soft “Thanks,” behind my back: quiet but just as startling coming from him as his hand that comes to rest against my shoulder. His touch is warm, much warmer than the air in the room, and as obscurely comforting as his soft voice, and the dim memory of a dream: gentle fingertips brushing against my skin. For a long while we stand at the window, looking out into the night; both of us quiet, just resting within that subtle, shared solace.

“Tell me something. Anything,” he murmurs out of the blue. “What were your parents like?”

It’s not a question I’ve had to answer often in my life, so I dig through my memories for the appropriate answer for quite a while before I speak. “They married young, and it didn’t work out.” For many reasons, but mostly because a pureblood witch shouldn’t ever marry a Muggle. “Mother insisted on cooking appalling dishes, and the only decent thing Father ever did for her was to disappear for days at a time.”

“Tell me more,” Harry urges. “What happened to them?”

There isn’t much to tell. “Dead.”

He flinches: I can feel it through the hand still resting on my shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It happened long before you were born.”

He shuffles his feet awkwardly and stares into the dark alley below. Just when I think that he’s finished his questioning, he asks another one. “Your mum, Eileen. Did you like her?”

Did I? “She was as good as any mother, I suppose. Not the doting sort, like Molly Weasley, but she was kind enough. She bought my first cauldron when I was eight.” I stayed up that night, trying to figure out the right ratio of ingredients for something I was making at the time. I didn’t have many supplies and whatever I did have I gathered on my own. I had to use the bathroom sink for the mixture, and was in too much of a hurry. The potion reacted badly and splattered everywhere: stained the tiles and melted a hole the size of a knut right through the bar of soap. 

Harry probably isn’t that interested in hearing my childhood memories but he acts as though he is, nodding with a slight smile at all the right places of my story. “She bought me a cauldron after that: ‘big enough to hide under if things went wrong’. Father wasn’t pleased.” No, he wasn’t happy at all with yet another reminder that I wasn’t normal, just like my mother. I spare Harry that particular tale. “She would’ve liked you, I think,” I say instead and watch the surprised grin that lights up his face.

“I thought that the old Wizarding families didn’t like ghosts?”

“Not her. She was good friends with Myrtle Brown, all throughout school, even after the girl was killed.” Pity I didn’t know that until after I started teaching at Hogwarts, and Mum was long gone by then. There were so many things about her that I didn’t learn until it was too late.

“Ah,” he nods. “Sounds like she was all right.”

Yes. If only I’d understood that earlier. “I hated her at times. She didn’t approve of my friends or my pastimes. Lucius was the only exception to that. He was quite the charmer when he wanted to be.”

“‘Course!” Harry replies with a short and rather sarcastic chuckle.

“Yes.” He was. “And you needn’t quite act so amused at the concept that I was once young and not entirely friendless.”

“What? Once? Is that what you think?” Harry raises his eyebrows and stares at me with a faint smirk twisting his mouth. “You’re still young, and you’ve got friends! You do! I mean – I guess – not like Malfoy was.” He pauses and then continues on a single breath. “But that too! If you ever want that. I’m sure you’ll find someone who likes you.”

What? He can’t be serious. “Ha! Take a good look at me.”

“I am looking at you,” he declares, peering at me stubbornly through his glasses. “And I don’t see any reason why not.”

Foolish brat. Does he even comprehend what he’s talking about? Does he have the faintest idea? “Can you see _anything_ with these on?” His glasses are covered with specks of dust and grime and his own fingerprints. I pluck them off his face by the nosepiece and breathe on the lenses before wiping the fog away on my sleeve. As I do so, Harry blinks and keeps staring at me in a startled, nearly-blind way, looking completely flabbergasted at his world that just turned into blur. I don’t feel quite so much on display now, with him unable to examine me through these lenses. Perhaps I should take them away from him more often.

I arch my eyebrow at his hopeless fumbling to find his glasses by feel, before I take pity and settle them carefully onto his face once again. “Better now?”

Even after Harry has his glasses back, he still gapes at me for a moment, as if I had removed his ability to speak as well as see. “I meant it!” he shakes his head at last and frowns. “Every word. And I mean, not just ‘a friend who likes you’, ‘cause _I_ like you, but the, uhm, the other kind . . .” he stammers and grows silent. “Oh, hell! I’m doing this all wrong.”

He bites his lip and stares at me as if he’s just discovered an entire book of riddles but he doesn’t quite know which one to begin with. “Can I ask you something?” he murmurs.

“What?”

“Did . . . did Lucius ever do this?”

Do what? I draw breath to ask, but before I can do so, Harry leans in. His hair is so soft, just brushing against my face. He’s closer than he’s ever been to me, and before I can gather my scattered wits, he kisses me: a brief touch of lips, dry and warm, to the corner of my mouth.

If that touch was just slightly to the side it would be much easier to mistake it for innocent affection, for loneliness, for some spontaneous, unpredictable, and foolish gesture of his, like Harry rushing through me and out the door or Harry tipping the bottle of water over my hand or Harry, open-mouthed, catching the rain. I wish I could mistake it for something other than what it is. Only this isn’t some foolish, spontaneous act to be done with and forgotten the next moment, not at all. I can tell by the way he stares at me, cautious and wary and determined and prepared: to lunge ahead and conquer another fortress like Lucius would’ve done, to ride this storm for all it’s worth, incapable of leaving well enough alone. At least Lucius always thought his campaigns through before launching them, always planned them well in advance. Lucius knew exactly what he wanted and what he had to do to take possession of it. Harry, on the other hand, doesn’t plan anything. Irrational fool, he simply jumps off the cliff without even considering how far he has to fall.

Did Lucius ever do this? This foolhardy, impossible thing? No. “Not like that.”

I’ve never seen Harry’s face so close before. Of course I must have, but I didn’t really look and notice the bottle green in his eyes, the oval red imprints that his glasses left on the bridge of his nose, never felt his unruly mane bristling against my forehead and my hand: my traitorous hand, which rises of its own accord to cup the side of his face, my fingers brushing over his ear and slipping into his tangled hair. I want to pull that hand away, but he keeps my palm pressed against his jaw, clutching my wrist with a desperation that reminds me I’m the first person to touch him in years. He moves closer yet, so close that his features blur, so close that his next words are whispered against my cheek, and I feel them as much as hear them.

“Did anyone? Ever?”

I should look away; I should push _him_ away but I can’t; I’m frozen in shock, turmoil, bewilderment. I rummage through my scattered thoughts, desperate for just one scrap of rationality. But I can’t think, not like this. Another second and I’ll choke on the lack of air in my lungs. If his thumb pressed any harder on my wrist, he’d surely feel my pulse pounding in my veins with the hammering of my heart. Too fast, too fast! My face feels flushed, feverish. And Harry’s eyes burn with the same sort of fever and determination. His fingers dig into the back of my neck and his mouth presses into mine, full force. Ohh! This is madness: a surge of warm, exhilarating brilliance everywhere but one point of contact: sanity, a brief taste of wet salt on his lips and it would be oh so easy to give in and hold onto it amid all the chaos.

But I can’t. For both our sakes, I _can’t_.

Carefully, slowly, I slide my hands up his forearms, grip his shoulders firmly and push him away: hold him at arms’ length, hold him still. I inhale, frantic for air as a drowning man. But even the air smells like him. 

“Lucius never kissed you like this.” Harry whispers, gazing at me with all of his boldness and resolve right there in his eyes. He shouldn’t have known that, not well enough to say it like this: a statement instead of a question.

At a loss, I fall back on familiar sarcasm; use it to try to restore the safe distance between us. “He never wanted to. And you don’t want to either.” 

“You don’t know!” He glares stubbornly. “Maybe I do.” 

‘Maybe’? It’s working. “No. You don’t. You may think you do, you might even want me to think so, but you don’t.” 

“Maybe this is _exactly_ what I want.”

“Potter.” I want to push him away, I want to shake some sense into him but all can I do is stand there as my hands grip his shoulders, unable to move them an inch even if I wanted to, unable to let go although I should.

“Don’t,” he whispers. “I’ve been cold and alone in the dark for too long. I don’t want to be, ever again. And you shouldn’t be either!”

This has gone on long enough. I can almost see reason in his words. “Wake me up.” 

He shakes his head and his hands fly up grasping my forearms, holding on. “No! I’m not cold anymore and I don’t want to lose that.”

“End this dream this instant you stupid _boy_!” I shout. Ah, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? Harry isn’t a boy any longer. Life would be so much simpler if I could take points from his House and assign detention and forget about the incident the next day. But he had to turn into an infuriating, impossible young man who rushes ahead without even thinking it through for one instant. Well it’s about time to force him to think twice instead of acting without any consideration of the consequences. “End it. NOW!”

He jumps, startled, and releases my arms. But he doesn’t take his eyes off mine, and a second later I’m backed against the window with his fingers on my mouth. “No. Just . . . shh. M’not a boy,” he whispers, hurriedly, breathlessly, not looking a day over seventeen and hopelessly besotted, as seventeen-year-olds all too often are. “M’twenty-five. You said so. You did. And you said there’s no reason I shouldn’t do something if I want it badly enough. Remember?” Captivated, I feel his fingers tremble and slide down from my mouth to my chin to my throat; watch him lean closer, his eyes wild and his breath coming in short gasps. “I want this. Never realised before how _much_ I want this.”

One look into his eyes and I know at once that he won’t listen, won’t end this. He’s too far gone, too caught up in this dream of his to change his mind. So I must wake up. I have to. It’s my dream and I can control it and I will end it. It’s only a dream; I am dreaming and Harry’s eyes aren’t green – not any more – and his hands aren’t warm, and in reality my own eyes are closed and I can’t see anything but the blackness behind my eyelids and Harry is unable to breathe or feel warm or touch anyone and I am not standing next to the bared window in my room and kissing Harry Potter, I am in my bed, asleep, and I need to wake up from this dream as soon as I can. I will, if I only make myself – force myself – to want it enough. I must wake up. I will!

* 

For one blissful moment I don’t remember my dream, and then the memories crash down on me like a wave, with a shock of bitter cold and the taste of salt.

“Potter!” I almost stride through his transparent form in the dark hallway on my way to the kitchen. “What the hell was that?”

He recoils from the candlelight, wide-eyed and terrified. “Nothing! I don’t know what I was thinking. Forget it!”

“We can’t just ignore this.”

“And why not?” he sneers, turning away. “It’s over. It’s just a dream.”

If only it were as easy as that. “Stop and listen, you stubborn brat. Just listen for once!” My cry manages to stop Harry in his tracks. Frantically I search my mind for something to say that might force him to see reason. “I am forty-five.”

He narrows his eyes and presses his lips together into a thin, stubborn line in a centuries-old act of defiance. “And I’m dead. What’s it matter anyway?”

“Ah. Of course! I’m forty-five and you’re dead and it’s _nothing_ of importance. Wake up, you fool!”

“Why should _I_ wake up? That’s what _you_ do.”

“Potter, this isn’t some joke!”

“I’m NOT joking!” he shouts and his eyes are vivid and brittle, like chips of ice. I haven’t seen Harry like this since the first time he showed up in my flat, desperate for someone to set the world back the way he wanted it to be. Just as before, I trap him beneath a silent glare, an eloquent and effective reply to such an outburst, on and on until he runs out of steam and the determination fades from his face and he breaks and looks down at last. I turn on my heel then, with the full intention of leaving him alone until he’s had time to reconsider and think it through with a clear mind.

“Wait! Hear me out first. Please.” He looks up at me and his fingers start tracing over the series of faint white scars on the back of his hand. The scars look a bit like a line of faded handwriting and his index finger shapes the letters over and over. “I know I’m a nuisance at times. And I know that half the time I’m no use to you. And I wish things were different, I wish I could offer more than . . . this. But if you’ll let me, I promise, I’ll be there for you every night. Every dream.”

Naïve, innocent fool! It’s just as I feared. “Potter . . .”

“No. Listen!” he interrupts, his expression growing more agitated and desperate by the second. “I’ve never . . . I haven’t got a clue what to do half the time, but I _want_ this. With you. I know it isn’t much but it’s all I have to give.”

I may have a way of dealing with his outbursts and his temper, but I still haven’t found a way of responding to his honesty. What can I do when he acts so ridiculously sincere? When did this urge to believe what he believes change from mere habit into compulsion? No matter how convincing, how tempting his offer is, I cannot give in. It’s only dreams: he said so himself. And I mustn’t, I cannot place my hope in dreams. I just wish that he didn’t have to make this so damned difficult for me. It’s more than difficult enough. “It’s my fault.” I sigh, “I should have never let this get so far.”

“It’s not your fault!” he cries, “How could you have known? Did you? I didn’t even realise it until now.”

“I should’ve realised it much sooner.” I must’ve been blind not to. “This can’t continue.”

“What?” he looks up in shock. “How can you say that? You haven’t even tried.”

“This cannot amount to anything good.” He must understand this! How can he not see?

Exhausted from thinking, from countless attempts at rationalising and classifying the events of last night, I collapse: my back against the wall, my fingers on the bridge of my nose. The mere sight of him stirs more confusion than my mind is prepared to deal with, so I shut my eyes and comb through my disturbed thoughts for the right thing to say. I must stay calm. I must retain my sanity. Just another deep breath and I’ll be ready. I must get this over with.

“You probably think of me as terminally repressed – oh don’t bother to deny it!” I scowl in irritable dismissal of his attempt to dispute my words, “The fact is, I’m rather bad at resisting temptation, and one way or another I always end up paying a heavy price after I give in.” The fingers of my right hand automatically find the place on my left arm just below the elbow and clench tightly, just as they did countless times during the Summons. “I’ve let my heart rule my head precisely once before in my life, and I’ve spent most of my life enslaved to two masters, in an attempt to atone for _that_ mistake.”

“A _mistake_?” Harry cries. “Is that what you think this is? I might’ve been stupid or rash but this wasn’t a bloody mistake to me!”

What else can it ever be but that? “Think about it. Just think. What happens if you get exactly what you wish? If we become ...close... in dreams?” If I love it? “I will start to live for the time I spend asleep. And I may not be able to mix a potion any more, but Muggles have managed to make their own versions of the Draught of Living Death. The Muggle potions are not difficult to obtain, and addictive.”

“Then all I’ve got to do is _not_ let you,” he says, desperate and sincere and hopeful. “This can work. It has to. I want this to work.”

Oh, but it can’t. And I have to stop him: stop him from hoping, from fantasizing, stop him from convincing himself over and over that this might ever be real. I cannot let him make the same mistake I’ve already made. “Sometimes we can’t have the things that we want. This is one of them.”

Harry stares past me into the night. “Y’know,” he says softly, “I couldn’t ever have anything I wanted: my parents, my childhood, a normal life. And now nearly everyone I know is dead or doesn’t care and I don’t have any life at all.” His gaze rests on me, thoughtful and sad, and his mouth curves into a soft smile. “Except when I’m with you, and then I feel normal. I feel good. So how can it be a mistake? I want this – and I know you do too. Don’t even try to argue! Things can’t get much worse for us than they already have.”

“Oh, but they can. And I will not let them.”

“So you’d rather give up?”

“Yes.” If that’s what he wishes to call it, then I will give up. “You may think that I’m heartless, but if I’ve learned nothing else from a life of servitude, I've learned one very hard lesson: nothing good can come of the heart overruling the head!” The heart is the most eloquent of liars; it only tells us what we wish to hear, it stops us from facing harsh reality until it’s too late. He mustn’t rely on it for guidance.

Harry draws his eyebrows together and looks up at me: as if I’ve given him another riddle too difficult to solve. “What _else_ can you trust then,” he asks, incredulous, “if not that?”

“You,” I murmur. And I might just be as much of a fool as Harry, for placing my trust in him so unwisely and for admitting it.

“What?” he blinks.

“I trust you,” I repeat. “It doesn’t happen effortlessly, or often.” So please don’t let it be another mistake. “I trust you to respect my wishes and my privacy. And if you give me your word, I will trust that too.”

“So do I,” he nods. “But what’s it . . .”

“I need you to promise me,” I project all the gravity of the situation into my voice, “I need you to stay out of my dreams.” 

“WHAT?” he cries. “You can’t be serious!” 

I am. I have to be. “Give me your word. No more dreams.”

“Don’t do this!”

“Promise me, Harry!” His eyes widen: oh, I said ‘Harry’, didn’t I? Too late now. “This might not be much of a life, but it’s _real_, and it’s _mine_. Do you want me to throw it away for _dreams_?”

He freezes, stunned, as if my point has finally sunk in; the moment lasts long enough for the echoes of my voice to fade. Then his expression sharpens and he narrows his eyes, as if he’s noticed something important that I’ve missed in the silence between us. “Don’t ask me to make a promise I’ll have to break.”

I stare at him: his transparent features rendered even paler by the dull light of the early dawn. His shoulders tense with unspoken defiance; his mouth twists in a thin, resolute line. “Then I was wrong,” I reply without hiding the disappointment in my voice, “when I thought you were a man of your word.” 

Harry’s own disappointment is clear when he finds his voice at last. “Looks like we were both wrong,” he says, grim and quiet, as he fades into nothing. A second later I am left wondering whether he was there at all.

*

I’m a right idiot. The biggest idiot in the whole bloody universe! What was I thinking? What did I do? Oh, sod it. What am I _going_ to do? 

I’m insane. That’s it! Absolutely bloody mental! A normal person would never do this, but normal people can’t see Snape’s dreams, and they don’t know how it was to see him with Malfoy and want to punch a wall, or punch that arrogant blond prick. …OK, so normal people _would_ want to punch Malfoy, but they wouldn’t go and snog a bloke who used to be their teacher, and they certainly wouldn’t go round afterwards promising bloody stupid things like _dreams_! Honestly, what did I expect?

But it just happened. Snape was there. And I was. And it was brilliant to have him listen for once and simply talk, and then he said this thing about being friendless and I thought that for a bloke his age he’s really rather fun to be around, and that he was wrong about being an ugly bastard no one’d take a second look at. He isn’t that bad! They’d at least look at him, and run later when they saw him in a temper. But, anyway. He was there, and I was there. And I said that thing about Malfoy and how someone would like him and how that wasn’t the same way I liked him and it didn’t seem right, and that made me think and it was too complicated to work out in my head and even more complicated to try and explain and then he took my glasses off and cleaned them and I couldn’t really see but I couldn’t look away either and I really wanted to ask him something and then . . . Oh, bloody hell! 

Why do I always do stupid things when I’m confused? No. NO! I’m going to talk myself into regretting this. I don’t! It’s not my fault. What was I supposed to do after he reached out and touched my face like that? It’s his fault: for being there, for breathing on my glasses, for kissing back, for being the only person who makes me feel alive. It’s all his fault. All his bloody fault. For being so different from anyone else and for not giving in and for always expecting too much of me and for making it impossible to like him and for making me like him anyway.

Sodding bastard! He’s brilliant like Hermione but sometimes he doesn’t see obvious things like Ron. He touched me and it was so soft and so tender it hurt, and I had to press his hand harder into my skin so I could feel more of him ‘cause it was years since that ever happened, and gentle was the last thing I wanted him to be but he was and I hate him for that! I hate him for kissing back and then staring at me afterwards like I’d punched him right in the face. I hate his warm energy and his cold words; I hate him for not saying my name sooner and for saying it when he did. I hate him for being so bloody right all the time and I hate him for _making_ me hate him all over again.

If it was anyone else, I would’ve left by now, but there’s something about Snape that makes me push back and keep on pushing ‘till I can’t think, ‘till there’s no hope left. And there still is; I know it. He didn’t mean what he said. He couldn’t’ve! Even though his flat turned cold since he woke up – bloody freezing like ice water dumped over my head – but when he said my name – ‘Harry’, not ‘Potter’! – it was as warm as ever; just for a moment. I don’t think he even realised he let his feelings show like that, but now I’m sure they’re still there, and if I reach out to him I can almost feel that warmth again, and until I know it’s gone for good, I’m not leaving him and I’m not giving up.

‘Cause I can’t give up on him. If I do, who’s going to make sure he doesn’t fuck up his life completely? And who’s going to help him get magic back? Nobody. Nobody but me.

*

Harry said that it was warm in my flat. I wonder if he still thinks so after tonight. Perhaps he’s already changed his mind. Because it wasn’t warmth he felt but something else, something I felt as well coming from him, something I would have tried to conceal, had I a better grasp of the situation. 

I’ve made a mistake.

I should have never asked him to stay. I should have hidden the fact that I’ve grown attached to him. I should have buried it deep and refused to bring it up, should have somehow made it impossible to sense as easily as heat.

But I did and now, by that accident, we are at the beginning of something, and as with all beginnings, I’m very tempted to go down that road, to take it slowly, carefully and see where this particular beginning might lead. 

I should have seen this for what it was from the start.

Step by step, we’ve been learning to get along, and by complete accident we’ve been getting it right over and over. I feel as though all I’ve been doing is tracing and retracing a scant handful of letters on a page, memorising their loops and curves, and I’m only at ‘C’s and there’s so much to this alphabet that I haven’t learned yet: so many things to learn about Harry. He and I have been going around in circles, drifting down the slow current of his dreamscapes, like the boat sliding across the lake and toward the distant castle. And among all those games and innocent pranks and colourful make-believe, we’ve been getting dangerously close to the line I don’t dare to cross, not anymore, not with anyone, and especially not with him. 

It seems that dreams have once again tried to take over my life. I should have recognised it sooner. I should have prevented this.

Attachment and affection, as innocent and simple as they seem, aren’t harmless. They can be used for someone’s cruel purpose, created only to be abused and destroyed, manipulated and broken. That’s one lesson that I’ve been taught well in my life: by my parents, by Lucius, by Dumbledore. It was perhaps the most valuable lesson of all. Caring for someone is a weakness. It leaves us defenceless when others – simply by the rules of human nature – do what they are capable of doing so well: deceiving, betraying and killing. The only chance to avoid being caught in this snare of human emotions is to severe all ties in the beginning, before one is drawn too deep to stand a chance of escape.

I cannot allow myself to believe that Harry is my second chance to find what I’d hoped to find in Lucius. I won’t let him become my life-long addiction. I cannot be selfish and I won’t allow myself to sink into this madness any deeper. I will not make the same mistake twice; I will not allow him to make the mistakes I’ve already made.

I will not do to him what Lucius did to me: allow him to follow me from day to day waiting for a miracle that will never happen; I can’t let him retain hope. I will not have him chasing dreams for years, only to be left at the end with a stench of ash in his lungs and nothing but memories and loss. 

Harry once said it was warm in my flat. I hope he can’t feel it any longer, for both of our sakes. He does not need this; he deserves much better than this. Harry mustn’t ever become like me.

*

I take my eyes off the bottle I’ve set on the kitchen table. Too long – for the past hour or more – I’ve been staring at the black bishop stoppering its neck. ‘Do not get too attached to spirits, my boy.’ But I did; I am. This particular one, in any case. It’s ironic that after all these years Dumbledore still hasn’t lost his prophetic sight. The old bugger’s proven me wrong after all.

“Good morning.”

There’s no need to turn around. I know exactly who it is: I’d recognise his voice anywhere. “It’s two-thirty in the afternoon,” I mutter, in case he still doubts that he was heard, even after the way my shoulders tensed and my fingers clenched around the edge of the table.

“Good _afternoon_ then,” he parries rather viciously, and I am sure that if he had it his way my ‘good’ afternoon would be much worse than it already is.

“I thought you’d gone.” He still might leave, but I won’t ever ask him about it. 

“M’not going anywhere. Not when I’ve still got things to do here. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

He circles round until he’s standing before me, stubbornly refusing to let me look away as he says hotly, “Listen, you bastard. I’m going to stay around and make damn sure you don’t throw away the rest of your life like you said. ‘Cause if I have to give up something like _this_,” a pang of loss flashes in his eyes before he resumes his determined look, “I’m going to bloody well make sure the sacrifice is worth it.” He scowls at the bottle on the table. “From the look of things, you don’t even need my dreams to waste your life, ‘cause you’re already doing a brilliant job of wasting it yourself. You owe it to me. A life debt, right? Every time you stuff up your life, every time you back away from things and won’t let yourself _live_ your life and _enjoy_ it, just remember, you _owe_ me to get it right, ‘cause I’m not going to promise anything until I make sure of that.”

All I can do is stare at him, thunderstruck. Just when I think I’ve finally figured him out…

“Come on,” he coaxes, “eat something, drink your coffee. And put away that bloody bottle! We’ve got people to talk to and places to go. In case you forgot, magic is back and we’ve got to figure out how to make it work.”

\--------------------------  
Notes:

The excerpts Snape reads to Harry are from [Canterville Ghost](http://www.kingkong.demon.co.uk/gsr/canter.htm) by Oscar Wilde.

Harry’s dreamscape scene is inspired by [Angel](http://www.geocities.com/SunsetStrip/Backstage/1687/Angel.html) by Sarah McLachlan.

_Spend all your time waiting for that second chance,   
For a break that would make it okay.  
There’s always some reason to feel not good enough  
And it’s hard at the end of the day.  
I need some distraction, oh beautiful release.  
Let me be empty and weightless   
And maybe I’ll find some peace tonight._

The title of the chapter is borrowed from [A Dream within a Dream](http://eserver.org/books/poe/dream_within_a_dream.html) by Edgar Allan Poe.

_You are not wrong, who deem  
That my days have been a dream;  
Yet if hope has flown away  
In a night, or in a day,  
In a vision, or in none,  
Is it therefore the less gone?  
All that we see or seem  
Is but a dream within a dream._


	7. The Line of Fire

Harry has plenty of infuriating traits. He is too impulsive, too stubborn, too honest; his outrageous ideas lack any scrap of common sense. He always calls these ideas ‘brilliant’, even though they’re anything but. This morning I don’t even bother asking what mad idea has invaded his head. He cries ‘let’s go!’ and rushes outside. I merely pocket my wand, my keys, and my banknotes and follow him out to face the summer day, too bright and too warm to be comfortable. It isn’t hard to gather from Harry’s inspired grin that this plan of his is supposed to do wonders for my bleak and gruesome existence. After all, he’s added me to his list of causes. As well as getting magic back in his spare time, he’s on another mission: he’ll make sure I don’t ‘waste’ my life, even if it kills me.

Harry’s idea turns out to be King’s Cross, revoltingly full of activity this time of day and year. I hold back the dry cough undoubtedly caused by all the fumes of Muggle streets, thread my way through the noisy mob with their shopping bags and their luggage trolleys, and count the seconds until this ridiculous tour is over. King’s Cross must be familiar territory to Harry, just as it is to me. He rushes ahead confidently, not even pausing to read the signs for guidance. I follow him through the brightly lit hall, past the row of moving stairways, past the white walls lined with advertisement posters, telephone booths, and rows of Muggle machines with their tilted windows glowing like the surface of a pensieve. I slow down and let him hurry ahead to the platforms, where the Muggle plastic and shine gives way to brick arches and dim globe lights.

Through the entrance and to the left, Harry reaches the barrier between platforms nine and ten, and starts examining it closely before I even have a chance to catch up. I glare at him silently until a rowdy group of teenagers is completely out of earshot. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing. Just thought it’d be nice to have an outing, maybe go for a visit.” He shrugs and gives me the most infuriating grin.

He grinned. At me. He has to be up to something, but before I can ask, he vanishes through the wall leaving me to glare at the time-worn bricks. Well, well. This isn’t a leisurely excursion after all. I knew he had something planned from the start: something foolish and ridiculous, something akin to testing the wards of Platform 9 ¾. I suppose I should let him find out for himself how hopeless his plan really is.

Soon enough he reappears, frowning at the bricks. I try not to smirk too obviously at his disappointment. “Surely you didn’t think you’d get onto the Platform just by swanning through the barrier?”

“Yes, actually. I did,” he glares bitterly: at me and then at the wall again, accusing both of us of non-compliance. “I thought it _would_ let me through. And when it did, I thought I’d find a way to get you through. And then we’d only have to follow the tracks far enough, to Hogsmeade. And Hogwarts’d be there, just off the train station. And YES, it’s MENTAL; you don’t have to tell me that. I KNOW!”

Why does everything with Harry always have to be about Hogwarts? It’s just an abandoned castle, untraceable and unreachable behind its perimeter wards. Even if I took him to Scotland and managed to find the exact location of the castle, which is a nearly impossible task by itself, I’d only see ruins in its place, just like any Muggle would. Yet Harry still tries to reach the Hogwarts of his dreams in the most bizarre ways imaginable. “Just because you can walk through ordinary walls doesn’t mean you can do the same with magical ones.”

“Why not?” he frowns. “It only keeps out Muggles. I can’t hold a wand in my hand, but I’m still a wizard! I’ll prove it if you want; in Parseltongue!”

It isn’t that simple. “The wards were set to admit living beings. Wizard or not, you don’t have a physical body to trigger them.”

His eyes light up. “Maybe if both of us try it. At the same time.”

“It’s impossible.” I hiss under my breath, moving a little closer as I search his expression, “Why do you keep doing this? Out of duty? Insecurity? Because you want to make my life better? You’ve already …”

“What? No!” he cries, furious. “Make it better yourself! I won’t. Not everything’s about you!”

Impossible whelp!

“It’s just …” he drops his head back against the wall, blinks at the dim lights and starts talking softly into the space quickly filling with crowds. “I really _want_ this: magic and Hogwarts and everything like it was before.” His voice trembles for a second but then he narrows his eyes and continues. “It’s my home. And now it’s empty and falling apart and no one I know wants to go anywhere near it.” He seems calm as he speaks; only his transparent fingers dig into the bricks as if he is determined to pull them apart one by one, to get through this barrier one way or another.

He slumps down in front of the barrier, disappointment hollowing his gaze. For the first time, he seems out of place in the Muggle world amid its noise and its people: scurrying on and off the trains, laughing and talking, unaware of Harry’s presence and hardly noticing mine. In all this commotion he is lost, just as I was when I came here once and pressed my palm against the unyielding brick, desperate to reach the world hidden just beyond.

It’s as if all his dreams are locked away behind this stark and ordinary wall, a gateway to another world with possibilities unsuspected by the milling crowds. The passers-by pay the wall no mind, just as they do not see Harry. At least he’s shielded from the consequences of their disregard as I move in front of him, dour and glaring, blocking the way for any stranger who might try to invade his personal space unawares. “You wouldn’t have gone far,” I murmur softly, “even if you did manage to get onto the platform.”

“Why?” he protests.

“The railway splits into several tracks.”

“So what?”

“Harry,” I peer at him. “Which way is Hogwarts?”

He blinks up at me quizzically, then his eyes widen and he waves an arm: half vague direction, half abrupt surrender. “I haven’t got a bloody clue!” He laughs then, harsh and sudden as if I’d told him a joke. “Last time Ron and I just followed the train.”

I remember that little incident well; how could I not? If it were anyone from my own House, they would’ve been reprimanded much more harshly, except no one in Slytherin would’ve been idiotic enough to attempt such a prank. “Unfortunately it’ll be hard to find any flying cars to take us to Hogwarts this time around,” I tell him sternly and resist the urge to add: ‘And even if there were, I certainly wouldn’t let you drive.’

*

I take him by Lincoln’s Inn Fields on the way back. It’s much warmer today, but the park looks almost the same as the last time we were here. The same green foliage and blue sky everywhere above us and the chirping pack of sparrows – scruffy and hopeful and agile like Harry himself – bouncing on the footpath and lining up in pairs and threes on tops of the benches.

I sit on the very edge of a seat that is furthest away from the rest and Harry plops down in the middle, right next to me, as close as he can get. Does he realise how awkward it is to have him so near? I glare; he moves a few inches away but still remains unsettlingly close.

When he speaks, his voice is soft, and serious, and slightly wistful. “If I was alive and asked you… what I asked you before, would you say yes?”

“Ask me what?” I stall, even though I can easily guess what he means.

He glances up at me and refuses to look away. “You _know_ what. Would you at least think about it before turning me down?”

Would I? My mind drifts to the memory of a waiter from The Cheshire Cheese – the young man who looked so much like Harry – and for a few brief seconds I allow myself to dream. I imagine Harry working in that pub, stumbling into the tables because he forgot to bring his glasses to work that morning, grinning at the visitors, and perhaps even flashing me a tentative smile. It’d disappear, of course, when he realised exactly who was sitting at one of his booths. He’d be much more subdued and cautious about smiling at customers in dark corners after that.

But maybe, just maybe when I was on my way out he’d catch up to me before I left the narrow alleyway and entered Fleet Street. His touch on my shoulder would stop me dead in my tracks and when I’d turn around to face him, he’d ask in that sincere, stumbling manner of his, stretching forward, so close that I’d see my own stunned look reflected in his glasses. “Professor? I saw you and – I’m wondering, maybe – would you like a cup of tea sometime?” I’d glare down my nose at such a ridiculous offer and he’d give me another utterly hopeless grin and I’d … Oh, this is absurd! Harry would never think to ask me. Most likely he’d pass me without a second glance because Molly Weasley said his sweetheart was waiting across the street since three and he couldn’t wait to see her. Foolish brat, why does he even bother asking these questions? He wouldn’t even think of talking to me, if he was alive today.

“No,” I shake my head.

“Why not?” he stares incredulously.

How can he not see this? “I’m all wrong for you. Not to mention too old, too poor, and with too many things to regret already.” I’ve made enough mistakes of my own; I don’t want to become one of Harry’s mistakes.

“Forty-five isn’t old.” He shakes his head. “Mum and Dad would’ve been forty-five.”

“Precisely!” I cry. He just saved me hours of proving my point.

He merely shrugs. “So what? And I don’t care about how much money you have; s’not like I can use it. And y’know what else? You’re being too harsh on yourself, like always.”

I’m not harsh enough. “I’m just stating the truth.”

“Right, then,” There’s that determined glint in his eyes, the one that never bodes any good whatsoever. “While we’re being ‘truth’ful, I’m wrong for you too.”

“You?” Frankly I’ve never bothered to look at it from that angle, never really thought of Harry as unsuited for anyone. “Why?”

“I’m too reckless. And not clever enough.” He shrugs. “You need someone to beat you in chess and talk about clever things like _Hogwarts: A History_ and Muggleborn genetics and magical osmosis and I don’t know about things like that. And I don’t keep my word. Why’d you ever trust me?”

“Why, indeed.” But somehow I do not doubt him, perhaps because he has enough sense to question himself.

“But no one’s ever absolutely perfect for someone else!” Harry cries. His eyes are vivid; the gleaming strands of his hair practically stand on end with his emphatic energy. “What’s really important isn’t being perfect all the time, it’s about doing what you’ve said you’ll do; sticking with it, and doing your best to _make_ it work!”

I remember him in his seventh year, always showing up for Advanced Potions even though he stood no chance of receiving a passing mark from me, and as I smirk at the memory, a question escapes before I have time to consider it. “Were you as stubborn in your romances as you always were in my classes?”

He blinks. “I haven’t had any… Oi, why?” he gives me a sudden cheeky grin. “D’you mean if I can remember the ratio of asphodel to wormwood, I’m in with a chance?”

“Absolutely not.” I declare in my most conversation-quelling tone before turning away. “Let’s go.”

“What? Where?”

“Charing Cross Road. Then home.”

He blinks. “What do we need on Charing Cross Road?”

“The Leaky Cauldron.” I call out over my shoulder at him. “Shall I leave you here then?”

“Oi!” he yelps. “No! Wait up!”

For all my show of walking away, I do still wait for him to catch up. Despite all of his faults, I’ll never leave him behind. For one thing, I doubt he’d _let_ me leave him: I suspect that the whole world is open to him, whether he realises it or not, and he can move in it with the speed of thought if he wants to badly enough. But what’s more important, I doubt _I’d_ let me leave him. Harry has a knack for stirring up my life, like a gust of wind will lift dead leaves from the earth and set them dancing; and it’s almost as if I’ve been following him all these months.

In my past I’ve hid in the shadow of the rich, the famous, the powerful, and I wonder now how much of what I feel for Harry is driven by my old craving to follow someone, anyone: the shining indiscretion of my youth, or the demagogue determined to dominate the Wizarding world, or the only man who ignored my Mark and trusted me enough to rescue me from Azkaban, or the ghost who took over my dreams, or even the brief image of a young man disappearing into the busy crowds of Fleet Street.

Harry’s fame has faded away. The only things he owns now are his dauntlessness and his dreams, but at least this time I’ve placed my trust in someone who isn’t rich or power-hungry – or hardly even tall enough – to be the next Albus Dumbledore or the next Dark Lord. Perhaps I’ve learned my lesson at last.

*

I still have nightmares sometimes. But everyone has; I know that. Even the Boys have them.

My nightmares are about that day of course: always the same thing. That morning Fleur snapped at me about something and said that I should not even be here and she should not be babysitting me at this age, so I left her and told the goblin at the entrance to tell her to Apparate to China if she asked about me, and I went to buy ice cream at Fortescue’s because if I was old enough not to be babysat then I was certainly old enough to cross the street without her.

I did not finish the ice cream; there was an explosion.

By the time I ran back there was nothing there: just an empty hole and piles of rubbish and dust rising from the pit and people screaming everywhere and no Gringotts.

I remember crying something. Fleur. Bill. But they never answered me.

That was when she showed up.

“Oh, poor dear, you shouldn’t even be here.” She dragged me back, away from the crowd and I noticed then that her Auror robes were covered in grime and blood and that underneath the layer of dust her hair was the most terrible shade of purple.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ve got you now.” She had a faint scent of perfume at her collar – the kind my sister sometimes had – but I did not see Fleur anywhere, so I took a deep breath and held onto her shoulders.

What was I thinking? I should have let go of her or _pushed_ her into the pit and _ran_ when I had the chance!

She is horrible. _Nymphadora_. Worse than all of my aunts together in the same room, and that is saying something! What does Papa see in her? Anyone – oh, hell – any_thing_ would be better than she is. They only ever married because it was easier that way for them to keep the Boys and me.

I did not care then, but now the Boys are gone for most of the time and I cannot mind her on my own. The fact that she is twice as old as me does not mean that she does not need a nanny! She does, every hour of the day, and I am tired of watching her.

She is all wrong for Papa and me. She is too young, too scatterbrained, and too childish. She keeps calling me ‘dear’ and makes funny faces, although it was not even funny back when she could still make her face look like other people’s. She cannot cook. Our house was a disaster until Papa started staying home with us and told her to find a job, and he only did that because she nearly burned down the house cooking one day. We would have been starving without takeaway until Papa learned to cook.

I help him in the kitchen sometimes. We bake bread on Sundays before the Boys show up for dinner. He makes the sweet rolls and I roll out the long baguettes with sesame seed and garlic. And Papa always covers his hair with flour, then he ruffles my hair and says that we look like two peas in a pod. He makes me laugh when he says that, even though there is no reason for us to look alike.

He is not my real Papa. I just started calling him that: not right away but a few months after Tonks introduced him and the Boys. I was really sick later and he helped me the most when I was feeling bad. And I started it first; no matter what the Boys say, they are wrong. The Boys started calling him that too, but after I did; it was easier this way for us after everything. I think we were all looking for someone to call Papa.

People do not pay much attention to me nowadays. And I do not mind. Better that than to have people gawping at me and politely trying to pry out what happened: why I look the way I look. I learned not to worry so much about my hair or my face but others still do at times, even more than they did before I got sick.

Take my aunts for example: I look a lot like them nowadays and not because we are related. It is just because they are old and grey and I am the way I am. They all talk about how pretty they used to be and how pretty I could have been. That is why I have not spoken to them in years. There is only so much of _‘chère pauvre Gabrielle’_ I can tolerate! I prefer it when people do not pay attention to me at all.

I have learned to be quiet, and most of the time they do not notice that I am here.

It is much harder when people do notice me and ask me things, and then I am supposed to lie and hide things from others. Things like where I come from or who Grand-mère really was or that thing about our damned back door.

I hate our back door. Our front door now has a wardrobe in front of it and behind the wardrobe it is boarded up and never opens. So we use the back door to go in and out. It opens into two different places. Papa says it is because our house still has some of the old magic left in it. But if you ask me this old magic is a pain.

If I twist the knob to the right it lets me outside. If I turn it to the left it lets me into the courtyard and that is a dead end. Papa says that it was not always a dead end and that one of the walls in the courtyard was a way to get into Diagon Alley but I have never seen anyone get into Diagon Alley through there. Fleur and I always came to Diagon Alley by Floo the normal way.

Sometimes the door opens into the courtyard anyway no matter how I twist it. Nymphadora says it is because I have some veela blood and it confuses the wards and Papa says that the door simply does not like me. I think she is wrong and Papa is right! Because usually the door does that when I forget my key and then it hits me hard in the back and latches behind me. And then I have to slide the rubbish bins next to the wall and climb on top of them and then on top of the wall itself to get to the actual outside, not the fake one. By the time I reach the fire escape ladder and look back to where I came from, the narrow ledge I climbed over disappears and turns into the solid wall of the building. If anyone ever saw me do that it must have been very strange because they would have seen me climb out of nowhere. But no one ever watches or pays attention to me until I climb down the ladder.

And I am just stuck waiting in front of our locked back door until Papa or Nymphadora comes home with the key.

I really, really do not like our door. I kept asking Papa to fix it for ages but he says he cannot do anything. I keep telling him that he can! He can put in a new door, the kind that would not lead to the courtyard at all and then I would not have to climb over the wall each time I get stuck there. But Papa refuses to listen. He says it might come in useful one day but how can it? I was complaining about the door to Papa, but he just said he would make up a new rule for me about not mentioning the door any more and then I had to stop.

There are rules in our house about certain things. Like the one he made for the Boys and me about never bringing friends from school home with us. Or one for Nymphadora and Papa that means they have to talk about a fake motorbike accident when Papa wears short sleeve shirts and someone asks about the scars on his arms. The truth is he only rode a motorbike once, with a friend, and vowed never to ride it again; when he first told this story to the Boys and me we laughed at him for hours. But his scars are not from the motorbike at all: they are from the time he used to turn into _le loup-garou_ every month.

We also have a rule about telling the people who work in the record store that we are friends of the bookstore owners and telling the bookstore owners the exact opposite thing. And there is another rule about not letting strangers in. I think Papa made this rule especially for the bad kind of strangers who have sour faces and dress like they have just attended a funeral, like this one down in the alley. He is of the same age as Papa but much skinnier and looks like he has not slept in a week. That must be why he is talking to himself. I have heard somewhere that people can go mad if they do not have enough sleep.

I do hope Papa comes home soon!

“Of all the foolish things!” the stranger says loud enough that I can hear him from my ladder. “I doubt if it’s even the right place.” And then he gives a stern look to something or someone.

There is a faintly shining outline of a person next to him. Ah! _Le fantôme!_ A real one! I thought there were none left any more but this one is evidently genuine. He is moving and I can even hear him speak.

“This has to be the record store,” the ghost points to the right. “And that’s the bookstore,” he says and waves to the left. “So this door has to be it! Two places, three doors. S’what Hermione meant when she said we could find it from the back, right?”

“Have it your way.” The man with the ghost grunts and knocks on our door again. No one answers him, of course. I do not think I would open the door for someone like him even if I was inside our house at the time.

“I reckon I can look inside and see if anyone still lives here,” the ghost says, and the man glares at him.

“I ‘reckon’ any brute can break the door down and do the same,” he responds. “That doesn’t give you any excuse to strut through locked doors without permission.”

The ghost backs away from our door. He does not look very happy about it.

“If we don’t see anyone here in the next half-hour,” the man turns around. “You can stick your head in.”

I remember him! I especially remember his face. He came to see Grand-mère back when she was still alive. Fleur was chosen to compete in some tournament in Scotland when she was still studying at Madame Maxime’s _Palais des Beauxbatons_, and he asked Grand-mère to bring me along to see it as well. Grand-mère batted her eyelashes at him and fluttered her fan stylishly in that way she had been teaching me to do, but when somehow he _still_ would not plead with her to accompany us personally, she sighed and said that as long as all the gentlemen at his school were as distinguished looking she would certainly consider it. She smiled most pleasantly and served him her special rose-petal tisane and invited him to stay the night rather than travelling back right away. But he looked at her, and listened to her, and drank her tea, and actually _refused_ her; cool and unmoved as he turned his back on her and walked away. She was most displeased with her inability to persuade him. I tried not to let her see me giggling. When the tournament holders sent someone to escort us to Scotland it was not him but a very prim, very old lady in a green tartan hat and glasses. Grand-mère was quite disappointed at that. It had been a while, she said, since she had encountered a suitable challenge and she was distressed that she had let him slip away.

And I remember the ghost too now, only he was not a ghost back then. He was the nice boy in the tournament who rescued me from the lake. Fleur was supposed to do that but she made a mistake and lost the tournament instead and Harry – I think it is Harry, yes, I am quite certain – won it. It is such a pity to see that he died so young.

“Harry,” I tell him when the ghost floats nearby. “No one is home right now. Would you ask him to stop knocking?”

He looks up, jumps and cries out and stares at me the way my aunts always gasped and stared at Grand-mère when at her age she still managed to catch the attention of all their beaus. I never thought I was capable of startling a ghost before. It always used to happen the other way around.

“Er. Who’re … How’d … where’d you come from?” he asks.

I jump off the fire escape ladder, pull the hood of my sweatshirt back over my cap and crane my neck at him. “I live here!”

He drifts closer to the ground. “Oi! See, I told you someone was home,” he yells over his shoulder at the man in dark clothes. “Sorry,” he says to me then. “He’s a bit cynical. Can you let us in?”

“I cannot. I left my key inside.” And the door latched. I hate our door!

“Who else lives with you?” the man says.

“Er … and what’s your name anyway?” Harry asks.

He does not recognise me at all! They both keep looking at me and I wish now that I had stayed on my ladder and stayed quiet. People always stare at me, and ask me too many questions when they see me, and I hate it when they do that. I hate it when they do not remember who I am just because I look different now. And now I wish I had not started talking to them! Sometimes I wish I was invisible all the time, like our house is to the people out on the street.

*

I look again at the person climbing down the fire escape to make sure she even is a girl. The way she stares at us reminds me of Luna: the way Luna’d look right through people sometimes, instead of at them. But she’s too young to be Luna, isn’t she? There’s something strange about her, something dried out. She reminds me of how Colin Creevey looked when he was Petrified by the Basilisk. She’s short enough to be a firstie, and frail and sharp-faced like a bird, and her skin’s so pale it’s nearly grey. She pulls the hood over her head, probably trying to hide her hair: all chopped off, and the fuzz that’s left is dull and dry. Even her eyes are as colourless as the rest of her, and as narrow: she’s squinting at us like she doesn’t trust us. Or, no. Not at us: at Snape.

“Back off a bit,” I mutter to him when she doesn’t answer either of our questions. “You’re making her uncomfortable.”

I turn to her and smile. “Sorry, er. Do I know you?” Oops, wrong question: she frowns even more at that and backs away.

“Perhaps if you weren’t so quick to forget all the damsels in distress you’ve saved over the years,” Snape hmphs over my shoulder, “then Miss Delacour wouldn’t be so cross with you.”

What? I just asked her name! S’not an insult. Wait, I saved her? I did? Delacour? Fleur’s little sister? How was I supposed to remember that? She doesn’t even look … oh. Course she doesn’t. She’s part-veela, like Fleur, and veelas were magical.

“How’d _you_ know?” I peer suspiciously at Snape, like the girl just did.

“She has the same voice as her sister. All you need to do is listen and pay attention.”

I did listen! I did. S’just I was paying attention to Snape instead and I can tell his voice apart any day and . . . oh, sod it! When he gets like that, I can’t really prove my point any more than I could during his lectures.

*

It’s getting late. Around the corner the sun tints everything above the third storey with soft orange. Footsteps and laughter resonate from the street. A man and a woman emerge from the shadowed alley leading around the block. The man, with his dusty brown coat and dusty grey hair, seems out of place, like someone who’d faithfully browsed the bookstore to the right every Sunday since the sixties, but now for once had walked too far and took the wrong turn. The woman on the other hand, with her tank top and jeans and her wild hair cropped short and dyed a piece at a time, seems no older than the kohl-smeared and metal-studded girls who spend hours in the record store to the left, looking for the most recent collections of wails and screams under a bright label. You’d think they wouldn’t give a second look to one another during their weekly routines – him reading quietly between the narrow shelves, and her headbanging away at the listening stand – yet they seem to know each other well.

“Right, give it back! And the lighter too.” the woman cries. She is older than I thought, but her form is thin and gawky and she scuffs her heavy-booted feet and carries her shopping bags slung casually over her shoulder. Her laughter is young too, loud and as clear as a bell. Her hair has splotches of red and orange and is wild, like Harry’s, though cropped shorter than his. Her features are softly feminine on a heart-shaped face. I’ve seen that face before. Once or twice anyway, since she never bothered to keep it the same for more than a day. She is Tonks, older and with different hair. I shouldn’t be as surprised as I am to see her again.

Tonks’ companion hides something in the back pocket of his trousers, just out of reach, and shakes his head. “Tsk! And you call yourself an officer of the law when you can’t even conquer one vile habit?”

“Ha! D’you know what Mad-Eye would’ve said to that? I’ll tell you what,” she exclaims. “He would’ve stood up, took a dried tobacco leaf out of his pocket, held it up for everyone to see and then blew a smoke ring out of his pipe and said …”

“Dear?” the man – Lupin, can it be? – rumbles interrupting her mid-sentence.

“Yes?”

“You’re going to end up _looking_ like Mad-Eye if you don’t stop smoking,” he parries and sidesteps, squashing something at Tonks’ feet.

“Oh, shush.” Tonks jumps back. Something rattles in her grocery bags. “I saw that! Leave off!”

“Saw what? There’s nothing to see.”

“You!” she chuckles. “Keep your feet off my bootlaces.”

“They’re untied,” Lupin protests. “I’ll step on them anyway,” he demonstrates with another attack at her feet.

“Oi, sod off!” Tonks whirls around. “I’ll send you shopping alone next time.”

Lupin winces and tries to dodge the heavy bag hitting him on the back of his knees. “Ow! You win, you win.” He stops her by the shoulders. “Hold still,” he says and kneels down. “Let me tie them.”

“Well, hurry up then.” Tonks shifts her bags into one hand and yanks at his windblown hair, grey at the temples but mostly the same dusty brown as the rest of his clothes.

“I’m getting too old for this,” Lupin winces – hand over his knee – when he tries to get back up.

“Too old, too poor. Yeah, yeah,” she says as she offers him a hand and then drags him upward. “Not too old for this, are you?” She hands him the shopping bags, then slides her arms around his waist, and kisses him. He drops the bags and steadies them both. From the easy, familiar way they touch it’s obvious they’re far more than friends.

Harry is watching them too, and after Tonks’ last reply a grin lights up his whole face before he throws me a look. I make damned sure there’s no similar smile on my face: there is really no reason to beam at the sight of two immature, uncontrolled adults pushing the limits of juvenile behaviour.

“I didn’t quite get that,” Lupin says to Tonks when they part. “Try again?”

“Bloody liar,” she purrs, her hand threading through his hair and pulling. “Reckon I ought to teach you manners.”

“You could give it a go, though it’s never worked before. Ohh no you don’t!” He catches her wrist, stopping her hand before it reaches into his back pocket. “Nice try,” he smirks.

I look up at Harry and catch him looking at me. He glances down then and his expression resembles Tonks’, caught by Lupin stealing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Such a flustered, caught expression he’s trying not to show, but he can’t even begin to hide it. For a second guilt pangs in my chest – guilt for crushing his hopes so roughly – and I wonder if it’s fair to expect him to give up the only contact with this world that he still has, the place he feels most alive: his dreamscapes. My dreams.

Harry finally stops his poor attempts at subtlety and lets that smile of his free again. It’s moments like this – when I can read what he’s thinking in a single glance, when he gives me this openness and honesty, without a single attempt at hiding his thoughts – then I know for certain that the madness of last night’s dream is far from over and far from settled between us. I doubt if it ever will be settled. I only hope that I can be strong enough to follow through with my decision and keep him out. I fear his constant presence will weaken my resolve as time passes. Subtly but surely, one smile, one ‘good morning’ at a time Harry will continue to tempt me to change my mind, without even trying to do so. Without realising that it’s impossible for us to leave behind every bit of common sense, jump headfirst into this madness, and survive it like these two insensible fools.

“We should go inside, y’know.” Tonks bumps her nose against Lupin’s and makes no effort to move.

“Yeah,” he replies, his eyes closed and his face content, but doesn’t move either.

Ten seconds later they split up their shopping bags, and manoeuvre – hands still linked – through the narrow space between the rubbish bins and the wall. Their laughter, rich and deep, resonates all the way through the back alley.

As they come close I take a step from the edge and into the shadows; Harry, obviously not concerned with being seen, remains where he was. “Gab’s probably worried,” Tonks says as they come near the corner.

That gets Miss Delacour’s attention: immediately she jumps up to her feet. “Do not call me that!” she yells and marches right over fixing them both with a stern glare fit for Molly Weasley, which looks rather grotesque coming from the pale, waif-like girl. “And could you find somewhere else to do _this_ instead of outside? There are plenty of rooms upstairs.”

Lupin smiles at her. Tonks rolls her eyes. They keep their clasped hands together and simply raise them over her head as they pass by her – Lupin on the left and Tonks on the right. “Honestly,” Tonks exclaims, “you’re old enough to …”

“_Nymphadora_ left the iron on this morning,” Miss Delacour interrupts triumphantly after she recovers from the shock of being ignored. “That is right, again! Papa, tell her!”

Tonks and Lupin trade the matching, tolerant grins. Tonks’ hand sneaks lower down Lupin’s back and she arches a red-tinted eyebrow: “I am standing right here, dear.”

The girl gives her another fuming glare and doesn’t speak. Lupin coughs and reasons diplomatically: “Remember, I did ask you to help her around the house.”

“Help? Do you mean ‘keep an eye on her so she does not set it ablaze’?” the girl inquires with an irritated tone. “She is a fire hazard! Why did I agree to this?”

Tonks hmphs. Lupin maintains a neutral face and quickly steps in between. “Yes. Well. What are you doing outside?” he switches topic carefully.

“I reckon that Little Miss Perfect forgot her keys again,” Tonks suggests in a singsong voice which earns her a cross glare.

“Please! You are twenty years older than me, _Nymphadora_. Stop acting as if you are twenty years younger.”

“Don’t call me that bla …”

“You’re sixteen. That’ll put Dora, … er, Tonks in negative numbers,” Lupin steps in again, taking great care to emphasise the surname.

“Precisely! Someone without a single brain cell,” the girl exclaims and waves her hands in frustration, her French accent coming through stronger than usual. “I am finished discussing this. You have another shirt with a hole in the back now, Papa. And, oh, we have visitors.”

Miss Delacour points in my direction and I cannot remain unnoticed any longer. Instead I glare back at the idyllic trio.

“Severus!” Lupin and Tonks echo each other and exchange forcibly delighted smiles. While Tonks’ is rather breezy there is no missing the beastly smirk appearing on Lupin’s undistinguished face. “Here you are,” he drawls. “After all these years. How … remarkable.”

“Visitors?” Tonks questions, looking past me. “But where is the rest of … oi! Whoa!”

I scowl at them and wonder whether a straightforward insult would be a proper way to start a conversation. But then Harry moves forward and they both follow my line of sight and apparently that is enough to make them notice Harry at last.

I take great pleasure in watching the forced smile fade from Lupin’s face, replaced by genuine shock.

“Er … hi?” Harry stammers, glancing with caution at Lupin and then at Tonks.

“Wotcher, Harry!” Tonks beams, completely oblivious of Lupin’s flabbergasted face, and waves her hand, freed from Lupin’s white-knuckled grasp. With a relieved smile, Harry responds with a wave of his own. Tonks eyes Lupin and finally, after not seeing the expected reaction, grabs his wrist and pulls it up in a puppet-like greeting.

Between them, Miss Delacour rolls her eyes and abruptly extends her own hand, palm up. “Key?” she clarifies grumpily after a few seconds’ worth of blank-eyed stares and finally sends Lupin and Tonks collaboratively digging through each other’s pockets in search of one.

She plucks the key, an ornate slip of metal like the minute hand from a grandfather clock, out of Lupin’s grasp, turns on her heel, marches right to the door, and swings it open with two clicks of the old lock. Billows of smoke escape from the inside and she coughs, covering her mouth with her sleeve.

“What happened?” Tonks exclaims. “One burned shirt can’t cause all…”

“Obviously not!” the girl rasps. “I was making dinner before I got locked out of the house.”

“I knew I should’ve brought takeaway,” Tonks mutters staring into the doorway dim with all the smoke. Miss Delacour is already inside banging something unmistakeably metallic together, presumably in the kitchen. Tonks and Harry follow her not far behind; Harry simply disappears through the wall as Tonks rushes through the doorway. There’s a bang and a hiss of running water hitting a scalding hot surface and instantly turning to steam. Lupin flaps the door back and forth rapidly to fan the air through the doorway and only then notices me still standing outside. He puts on a pleasant smile. “Why don’t you come in, Severus? Leave the door open.”

I shut it behind me, just to spite the irksome beast who is certainly not in any position to give me orders.

“It is ruined! Terrible!” a French-accented voice cries from the most smoke-filled corner.

“Now, there is no need to yell,” Lupin calls out.

“S’brilliant,” Harry sneaks a delighted grin at me, floating in the midst of all the chaos and happily enjoying the bitter scent of smoke. I narrow my eyes at him. Ghosts! Serve them toast once and they expect a four course meal every night.

That’s when the worst of the smoke hits my nasal passages. I cough, dry and deep; it doubles me over and I can’t seem to make it stop.

“I’m fine,” I gasp, interrupting Harry before he can express the worry on his face in words. “Just need fresh air.”

*

It’s fascinating to see that the old wards still work in this place, and that the back door of the Leaky Cauldron still leads into an abandoned courtyard with two rubbish bins and a dead end that once used to be an entrance to Diagon Alley. The air here is clearer, without the petroleum stink of Muggle London or the smoke still lingering inside the Leaky Cauldron rooms. I am glad to be out of both sets of fumes, and out of the clutter and noise of the two hapless guardians trying to fill the role of the parents to an adolescent girl. Harry is still inside, buoyed by the clouds of their impromptu burnt offering, and I leave him to his banquet.

The lock behind me squeaks and turns and the girl slides through a gap barely thin enough to let a cat in. The opened door admits the muffled noise of conversation followed by the bang of heavy window frames sliding open.

“I have met you before,” the girl says; that French lilt a little stronger in her voice. “But I forget your name.” She stares at me quizzically, expecting a reminder.

“Snape.”

“Ah.” Her thin mouth quirks into a smirk and she nods toward the door she just came through. “They call me by your name sometimes. They say it to anyone who tires of pretending to be under constant Cheering Charms.” She glances at me, quick and timid, like a mouse. “You do not know who I am, do you?”

I arch an eyebrow at her. “Quite the opposite, Miss Delacour. I remember you and your family quite well.”

“_Quoi?_” She looks shocked. “Which one do you mean?”

I think back to Gabrielle’s grandmother. She must have been Albus’ age by the time we met, but her human shape seemed no older than Fleur. She was as elaborately gowned as Madame Pompadour, her white hair piled high in a magnificent display of an ingredient that would’ve cost me a small fortune per a single strand at the Knockturn Alley apothecaries. Long habitation among humans had taught her to wield the enchantment of her seductive presence well, but I knew what I would be getting into before I walked into the room. I prepared by burying all in me that was capable of response behind a labyrinth of Occlumency and it worked. When I failed to immediately fall at her feet in a paroxysm of lust, she smiled behind her fan and offered me tea, laced with Amortentia judging by the smell: I could recognise the sharp fragrance of Lucius’ cologne anywhere, even mingled with the clear cold ozone scent of high-altitude flight. She was addicted to the power her presence granted her over men, so unaccustomed to failure she fell back on an easily detectable stratagem.. I returned her smile, and politely sipped my tea. After all, I could brew neutralising potions and I could certainly drink them in advance. They worked impeccably, of course, and I watched her fury grow, smiling inside all the while. Frustration added colour to her cheeks that no rouge could duplicate.

From that memory of triumph I turn to Gabrielle’s sister, Fleur, at the lake during the Tournament, her veela beauty overwhelmed by her human hysteria at her failure to rescue Gabrielle. I remember her wide smile when Harry broke the surface and she saw her younger sister at last.

And that memory leads to Fleur taking up with the eldest Weasley lad, working with him at Gringotts, and from there it is impossible to escape the black pull of the memory of the burning pit in the earth that was the financial hub of our world.

Too many children were torn from family and home all over the world and forced into new families. Gabrielle had been unfortunate enough to fall into the clutches of a werewolf and a social misfit, who have apparently taken their own slant on Moody’s vigilance obsession: ‘Constant Cheerfulness!’ Ghastly. Still, it could have been so very much worse. “Both of your families,” I tell the girl. “They are particularly hard to forget.”

Harry sticks his head through the wall. “Oi, Gabrielle? They’re looking for you.”

She rolls her eyes. “_Quelle surprise_,” she mutters over her shoulder as she goes inside dragging her feet.

 

*

I watch Harry pace back and forth on thin air, in between staring at the wall next to him about five times a minute.

“It won’t open,” I inform him. “Save yourself the trouble of trying to walk through it.”

“I know it won’t,” he frowns. “I’d need a wand for one thing. Oi!” his gaze rests on my pocket. “Could you maybe?”

“No!”

“Please.”

Impossible whelp. I take out my wand and give the brick above the rubbish bin three taps with it. “Satisfied?”

As expected, nothing happens.

“Are you sure it’s the right brick?”

“Yes! I am certain many have tried this before with just the same results.”

“Well, it doesn’t hurt to try it again,” he argues. “Maybe it’ll work this time.”

An old saying appears in my mind: madness is repeating the same thing over and over again and expecting a different outcome. “It didn’t. And it won’t. You won’t find a way in, so just save yourself the trouble of examining every brick on every wall that _used_ to have a magical entrance.”

He glares at me, then turns around and gives the wall a kick. As I expected, this wall, like the one at King’s Cross Station, is one of the few that remains completely solid for him; all he manages to accomplish is one stubbed toe. “S’not fair! Nobody else has magic, but you’d think the anti-Muggle wards’d let a _ghost_ through, but they don’t ‘cause I don’t have a body.” He stares at me, long and hard. “It’d make life so much easier if I had one,” he says in a way people usually refer to new quill or a haircut.

And if the body he finds has a brain capable of logical thought, that would solve even more of his problems! It can’t be good for a ghost to think such thoughts. It can’t be good for a ghost to want an easy life. Life! Ha!

“Oi!” Harry exclaims suddenly. “Y’think we could ask Ginny to open it?”

“Ask Miss Weasley?” I cry, my voice sharp with disbelief. A heavily-pregnant squib, whose only magic is filtered through her link to her wizard foetus and is further destabilised by being focused through a wand not her own? You want to ask _her_ to open the way into the world whose destruction we fled seven years ago? Why not ask her to stand in for Hermes, or Anubis, or Virgil, while you’re at it? I give him my most forbidding glare, expecting rightful fear and immediate cooperation. “Over my dead body. In which case, I assure you, you will have more luck possessing it like the bothersome spirit you are and opening the damn arch yourself!”

Harry looks so eager I wonder uneasily if my last words could’ve been misinterpreted as sexual. “_Can_ I?”

_What_? I take a quick step away from him. “Certainly not!”

“It doesn’t need to be a dead body,” he points out ever so helpfully, “Just a willing person.”

He can’t be serious about this. “Don’t be macabre, it doesn’t suit you.”

“No, listen, I mean it! I think it’ll work,” he insists.

He is serious! I peer at him down my nose. Madness! “Just how sure are you?”

He doesn’t budge. He faces me, unblinking, and for once I don’t even miss my lost Legilimency; even without it, his eyes show his complete belief in what he says. “Sure enough to know it’s worth trying! You believed me about Ginny’s baby. Well, this is just like that!”

Just my luck if it is. It doesn’t make knowing what I have to do any easier. “I used to have a bad reaction to the Imperius Curse.” I step away from the wall I’ve been leaning against. “If I couldn’t throw it off it turned … unpleasant.” I take my wand out and hold it tight, drawing comfort from its familiar grip, even though that’s all it’s been good for in recent years. “I imagine being possessed might have a similar effect.”

Harry’s face is sombre with sympathy as I explain; but when I fall silent his eyes widen in surprise. “But… you’ll let me?”

“I trust you,” I husk. “Just make it quick.”

“All right,” he squares his shoulders, as if he’s fighting down nerves. “Hang on. Never done it before.”

Just perfect! I curse the moment I ever allowed myself to mention possession in his presence.

“Hold still.”

Harry moves right in front of me, face to face. His hands reach out and hesitantly linger – without actually touching – at my temples. For a brief second of exchanged glances between us, I hold my breath and wonder if it’s worth the sacrifice of his company to keep him out of my dreams, when he doesn’t even need dreams to disturb my thoughts, when he can make my blood race with mere proximity.

“What are you do…”

“Shh. Try to relax.” He leans closer. If this was one of his dreamscapes and he was solid our mouths would be an inch from colliding but they don’t and how can I possibly relax like this? I stare – through him, at him – and Harry stares back for one brief second and then ducks his head down and moves forward and I feel the same tingling spark I felt when he ran through me before. But this time, it’s not a fleeting frisson; it spikes in a wave of dizziness so intense I close my eyes. When I open them I see my wand hand moving without my own volition, my arm lifting to reach for the wall in response to another’s will. I am a prisoner inside my own skull, as helpless to influence events as an Azkaban inmate is to control the gulls he sees beyond the bars of his cell window. It is as if Voldemort cast Imperius on me and forced me to watch a Polyjuiced stranger – no, my own body – move without my control: to see my hands brushing against the brick wall, to raise my wand tapping the stones. I am not strong enough to overpower the caster and slip from the grasp of his will. Helplessness crushes me; I panic and my chest burns with pain as in front of me the bricks quiver and turn with low scrapes and grindings, folding onto themselves, forming an archway that grows wider and wider.

And then suddenly, just before the burn in my chest drives me to my knees, I am back and I can move again. Through the gap in the wall I see the cobbled street twisting out of sight. I haven’t seen it in so long I’ve begun to think of it as a foreign scene glimpsed on a postcard or in a magazine. Or worse: as a dream with no more relevance to me than an illustration in a book of myths.

But it’s real and it’s right in front of me.

I lean against the brick archway and gasp for air. It’s the air coming from the other side, rich and free of the industrial reek of the city streets, heavy with the loamy scent of rain, wet earth, and bricks. The air itself is glistening with rain brightened by the last rays of the evening sun behind us. Everything shines in gold: the wavy cobbled footpaths amid the dark mass of abandoned storefronts, the grimy glass in storefronts themselves. The silence beyond is broken only by the patter of raindrops against the bricks and the low squeaking of a wooden sign swinging on the breeze.

“Bloody hell,” Harry says right behind me. “It worked. WE OPENED IT!”

The last twinges of pain ebb away and I straighten out of my lean against the arch, though I leave a hand resting on the bricks to help disguise the movement. I’m understandably reluctant to draw Harry’s attention to that side-effect of my moment of instinctive panic.

“You can come in now, the smoke is …” Lupin’s standing behind us in the door leading to the Leaky Cauldron; his voice grinds to a halt and his expression glazes over with shock as he stares from the wand in my hand to the archway that minutes ago was just a plain brick wall. “Snape!” he cries at last, breathless. “What the _hell_ did you do?”

Behind him, Tonks appears, flustered and pale, with a layer of soot across her forehead.

“Diagon Alley!” she grins. “Right, what’re we standing around for?”

“Wait,” Lupin puts his hand on Tonks’ elbow. “Maybe we shouldn’t go all at once. It’s been years; there’s no telling what’s happened here.”

Tonks raises an eyebrow and a hand. “Oi, Auror, remember? I’m trained to handle this. I should be telling you to stay behind.” And with that she strides through the archway onto the cobbled road.

“Papa, she would be as much of a menace at home,” Miss Delacour scolds Lupin as she walks past me. “Let’s go.”

“You’re staying here,” Tonks and Lupin order more-or-less in unison.

“Fine,” she huffs and sits down next to one of the rubbish bins in the courtyard, stretching her legs across the archway. “But you will hear about it the next time you ask me to help Nymphadora around the house!”

I take my hand off the wall, and the bricks forming the edge of the archway scrape as they begin to turn. Quickly I place my hand through the opening to keep it from closing. “Hurry, then,” I call over my shoulder. “There is no telling how long this will last.”

Harry rushes past me onto the cobbled street after Tonks and takes a wild look around. “Everything looks fine,” he calls. “It’s just how we left it.”

“Just remember, if you see or hear anything strange, run back into the house and let the archway close, don’t worry about us,” Lupin tells Gabrielle as he leaves her standing right in the middle of the entrance.

“I will,” she says, leaning against the wall. “I have my key this time.”

Lupin smiles and lifts her hood, ruffling her hair. She winces, tugging the hood over her head. “Be careful out there.”

“We will,” Tonks chimes in. “It’s my job.”

Lupin and Gabrielle both roll their eyes at that.

“Do hurry,” I sneer at Lupin as he blocks the archway. “I prefer not to wait for you until the next full moon.”

“Severus,” he smiles pleasantly, “You’re quite safe. I haven’t had to resort to Wolfsbane for the last seven years.”

Mangy beast. I don’t know what enrages me more: his saccharine simpers or the fact that he’s found a _cure_ in the disaster that destroyed our world.

It stops raining by the time we turn the corner but the cobblestones are still wet in the middle of the street beyond the shelter of the eaves.

“Look, the Magical Menagerie,” Tonks points at the windows of a nearby store. Glass shards fringe the windows’ empty frames like a predator’s fangs. Piles and piles of cages, disarranged and broken, fill the darkness within: skeletons of metal and wood. I glance away after a moment, stopping myself from looking for the remains of any trapped creatures in the cages that still seem intact.

Tonks approaches the storefront cautiously until she is underneath its ruined streetlamp, crooked and leaning against the brick wall. Her face is white and grim as she waves at a patch of footpath a few steps from the door. “I stood right here that morning,” she says and I have no need to ask which morning it was. “First the Wireless stopped and everyone on the street went silent except for all the animals making noise and rattling their cages. And then the owls from Eeylops Emporium broke through the windows, right through the glass: sent feathers flying everywhere. Scared the wits out of us with all their screeching and flapping. Then the Magical Menagerie beasties followed them down the street: through the doors, mostly. I don’t know how they got the cage doors open so fast, and all at once. Uncontrolled magic maybe; crups have these bursts sometimes when they’re really scared. People were calling out, ‘Catch them!’ And then the blast from Gringotts shook the entire street. And it’s like the bloody owls knew something was wrong before we did!” she exclaims bitterly. “They knew, and we didn’t suspect a thing before it was too late.” She grows silent and looks up, as if still expecting to see the owls flying away right before the disaster hits. Then her gaze seeks out Lupin. “But it’s all right. Look, we’re back,” she says uncertainly, as if convincing herself that it’s true.

“Yes, we are,” his hand lingers on her shoulder for a while before they resume walking.

*

Diagon Alley isn’t quite ‘just how we left it’, no matter what Harry says.

Most of the wards still work, but ironically that fact also works against us, as Lupin discovers when he tries to get into Quality Quidditch Supplies. After three unsuccessful tries and an attempt to break through the door he’s thrown backwards against the opposite wall. Five minutes later we revive him, as it turns out, from the side effect of a short-term memory charm. “What happened,” he asks, blinking and giving us confused looks. As Tonks explains, I ponder how lucky we are that the memory charm wasn’t set to a longer amount of time and Lupin still vaguely remembers walking through the Diagon Alley entrance. We’re also lucky that we didn’t discover this fact through something harsher, like anti-theft wards.

“I must’ve wanted to see if the brooms still work,” Lupin speculates, eyeing the locked door to the Quidditch supplies store. “That’s the first thing the Muggles were looking for besides the wands. Rumour has it they still went up in the air after everything happened and of course after Muggles were through with us you couldn’t find a Wizarding broomstick in all of the British Isles.”

Harry eyes the windows interestedly at that. “Bet my old Firebolt’s still in the cupboard,” he whispers to me, grinning. “Too bad I can’t ride it. If I could I’d’ve showed up at my aunt and uncle’s door long ago to pick it up and left through the window, wizard style. Would’ve loved to see their faces.” I think of one of his dreamscapes then, the one where he recreated the room with the barred windows and the silent house with the unmoving pictures on the wall and the unlit cupboard. It was so small the broom would never have fit in it, without being shrunken.

Tonks helps Lupin up and they keep going into the purple shadows of the winding street, followed by Harry not far behind them. I can only guess that they’re driven by the same senseless urge that drove the ancient Muggle explorers in search of undiscovered lands through miles and miles of empty ocean to their eventual deaths. If James Cook was a wizard, he would’ve been sorted into Gryffindor.

Lupin and Tonks divide up the street. She takes the left and he the right, trying doorknobs and peeking through dusty windows, just as children often looked through the dark windows of Honeydukes after closing time. All the doors seem to be locked. They don’t try their chances with the wards any more.

They keep up with their routine until we reach the pit where Gringotts used to be. The empty hole in the ground is not so raw and jagged-edged now, smoothed over by grass and ivy cascading down its sides. Nature’s had seven years to take over the ruin and it’s done so, one cracked brick, one patch of empty ground at a time.

On the footpath before me, between stones ringed with moss and crusted with lichen, I see something that seems to epitomise the whole Alley, its familiarity and strangeness: a knut, its bronze gone green with verdigris.

I try to get it out with the toe of my boot but it’s stuck between the two cobbles wedged deep into the pavement, so deep that it’s turned into part of this place. Diagon Alley has been waiting for us, abandoned all these years, with its empty stores, ruins, and coins lost amid the cobbles. Most likely it will have to wait a few more years before we see any sort of movement on these streets.

I look up. Harry hovers over the edge of the dark pit where Gringotts used to stand. I take a few steps toward him.

“It can’t be true,” he says softly.

“Harry?”

“I’m all right,” he shakes his head sending his transparent fringe flying. “Just, y’know, I heard it before, and I saw it in your dream, but it’s different, somehow, to see it like this. It’s really gone. Empty. This whole place is.”

“It won’t be empty forever,” I murmur, and I’m not just saying it to comfort him. I believe it; simply because it’s logical to assume that someone someday will repair the broken windows, swing open the warded doors, find all the galleons, knuts, and sickles lying forgotten in the dust. Perhaps none of us will, but we are just the first to set foot in this place, and someone else, someday, will eventually come here and make it their home.

“I s’pose not,” Harry says thoughtfully and looks up at me with a faint smile. “Thanks.”

“Why?”

He shrugs and his smile turns wry. “No reason.”

Of all the things I’d imagined doing if I ever returned to Diagon Alley, receiving thanks from Harry Potter had certainly never crossed my mind.

“Look,” Tonks yells pointing behind the half-collapsed store on the other side of Gringotts, “A chunk of the wall is missing.”

Harry’s face lights up. “D’you reckon the wards’d still work if you don’t try to break in?” he asks, but then he rushes ahead without even waiting for a reply. Nonetheless, I let Lupin crawl through the hole in the collapsed side of the building first. I do not want to risk a memory charm: however faint the chances might be, I would rather not lose Harry’s last words from my mind.

I remember this place. Even in this state, poorly lit and with one corner of the room reduced to mere rubble. The fireplace on the other side is still intact, and so is the jar of floo powder sitting on the mantel. It’s the same place where seven years ago I rushed in and tried to floo to Malfoy Manor without success. I remember accusing the owner of letting his floo powder go stale but now I suspect that the owner had nothing to do with it.

Lupin pokes at the powder that has solidified in its jar long since. He shakes the jar upside down but nothing comes out.

Tonks crawls over the rubble inspecting the jars and the phials on the shelves, their labels covered by a thick layer of gritty dust.

“What’re these?” She plucks something small and pale from a dusty wooden box. “Funny little thing, innit?” She rubs the dust off it then holds it to her eye to peer at it closely. “Pretty.” She’s holding up a capsule-shaped orb; now that the glass is free of grime, the liquid within glows like a white opal, almost like Harry himself when he’s fully visible.

The instant I see the colour of the fluid and the fact that it’s sealed into airless, stopperless ampoules rather than any ordinary phials, my blood freezes in my veins. The ingredients come back to me at once: salamander bile, dragon saliva, erumpent fluid and half a dozen more components, any one of which could reduce the whole room to ash. I feel the urge to yell ‘Run!’ but any sound freezes in my throat.

Tonks stops eyeing the ampoule and gets ready to toss it up in the air, as if it’s a ball and she wants to play catch.

Ever so slowly I take a breath. I didn’t live through two Wizarding wars and the collapse of our world just to be blown to bits by a bloody clumsy accident of a careless former student. “Miss Tonks,” I advise her in my most composed voice. “Put it down, before _it_ puts _us_ down. _Gently_.”

She shudders from seven years of ingrained classroom instinct, and for a second gives me the same horrorstruck look as the young and pink haired version of herself who’d just blown up a cauldron full of mangled ingredients. This time however she doesn’t hide behind a different face and try to talk her way out of trouble. Instead, thank Merlin, she listens to me for once and sets the tiny ampoule down into the box. “All right, it’s back in, relax,” she shrugs.

As Tonks moves away, Harry floats up to the box and peers interestedly into it. I smirk humourlessly when his gleam illuminates the alchemical symbols on the box’s dust-shrouded sides. Just my luck. That was no stray ampoule: we’re sharing a room with a 3x7 storage chest of the stuff. Better still; one glance shows me the chest is completely full: there are opalescent gleams in every cushioned compartment within. “Paranoid git,” Harry looks up from his fascinated examination, chuckling at me. “S’not like they’re going to blow up any second.”

“No, indeed,” I inform him dryly. “They _only_ explode if the potion comes into the _slightest_ contact with air.” I glare pointedly from the glass ampoules to him until he too backs away from the crate. “Oh,” he says. “They do?” and his lips spread into a slow, appreciative smile. “Wicked!”

I peer down my nose at him as I lift an ampoule from its compartment in a single – and above all, smooth – movement, and hold it up to his face, pointedly comparing its luminescence to his, side by side. “Ignis Alba, Mister Potter; White Fire,” I enunciate. “Half the time I think you’re made of it: how else can one explain such an explosive personality?”

Harry snorts, then gives me a wide smile, although I certainly didn’t intend the remark to be a compliment. Behind my back Lupin has the audacity to laugh. Tonks echoes him.

Suddenly Harry’s face grows stern as he glances past me. “Oi, what’s that?” he exclaims, pointing toward the gap in the wall that we had climbed through.

“What?” I ask.

“Outside,” he frowns. “I saw something move.”

Lupin and Tonks step toward the wall, away from the light. “Was it a person? A beast?” Lupin questions in low tones.

“Dunno,” Harry shakes his head. “I only noticed a shadow: small. It was fast, whatever it was.”

While the others are occupied, I slip a few ampoules into separate pockets. Just in case. It’s not the safest way to transport them, but unlike Gryffindors and their fondness for playing games of catch with incendiary potions, any damage _I_ will do with them will be fully intentional.

“We should head back,” Lupin says, his nostrils wide. “Gabrielle’s all alone out there and I don’t trust this place.”

All is silent as we step outside. The sun hides behind the pointed roofs and the twisting street grows darker as we start making our way back to the Magical Menagerie and the archway beside it. We keep clear of the empty, sinister windows and doors of the warded buildings, and we stay out of the shadows of their roofs: darkened silhouettes against the orange sky. Our footsteps echo eerily through the empty alley. Harry is in the lead, followed by Lupin and Tonks. I am last in line, and I cannot forbear from glancing behind me occasionally, driven by an awareness even more unsettling than the sense of Harry’s invisible scrutiny that I’ve felt in the past. There is an uncomfortable weight on the back of my neck; my shoulders hunch, as they did in school, in expectation of curses yet to land. It’s as if the entire alley is watching us from the shadows, wondering why we came back after abandoning it so long ago.

A startled cry comes from around the last corner leading to the archway.

“Gabrielle?” Tonks cries out and runs forward.

“I am all right. It just surprised me,” she calls back. “Just look at this. It is unbelievable!”

“Whoa!” Harry’s eyes go wide as he turns the corner. “Oi, it’s a … alive.” I cover the distance between us in three strides and look where he points.

A baby sits in the middle of the street. Pale and unclothed. No, not a baby, I realise as it turns around to look at us. It’s too small to be a human child: though it’s hairless and pink, it’s no bigger than a kitten and its ears are long enough to drape over its shoulders. The creature is certainly not human, but it’s a living, breathing, moving creature nonetheless.

Gabrielle kneels at the entrance and reaches out toward it, holding onto the side of the arch to prevent it from closing. “Hi,” she says. “Come here, we will not hurt you.”

It rises up on shaky legs and makes a first step toward her.

“It is a house elf!” Gabrielle croons softly. “How peculiar. No! Stay where you are, you will scare it.” Despite her warning Lupin takes another step but Tonks stops him by placing her hand on his shoulder and squeezing. Gabrielle takes the cap off her head and waves it gently above the ground to gain the elf’s attention. Scrawny and almost hairless herself, she looks like a bigger version of the creature. The house elf stumbles toward the offered hat, wide-eyed as an owl with its long ears twitching curiously.

The sight isn’t enough to convince me yet, but maybe Diagon Alley is not as dangerous as we thought. From what I’ve seen so far, the place is like an orphaned child aged beyond recognition, worn thin and drained by time and loss, left lonely and prone to silence; but if you lean close and look at it a certain way, if you coax it out of the shadow, there is still hope and a spark of former beauty and life.

“I didn’t know there were any house elves left here,” Tonks grins at Lupin.

Left here? I think of the shadow Harry saw in front of the store. The elf is pulling at the cap, but Gabrielle doesn’t let go. It bites into the edge, pulling the threads loose. “That is not nice!” the girl exclaims. “Where are your manners?” She reaches for his long, pointed nose with one finger, intending to give it a tap.

As she does so, I gasp “Don’t touch it!” The old horror of inevitability closes over me, relived in nightmares a hundred times – the certainty that everything is about to go catastrophically, unstoppably _wrong_ – exactly as I felt it at Knockturn Alley, before the explosion.

My warning comes too late; the house elf lets out a piercing wail. The air trembles like a mirage as a burst of magic rushes past us to hit Gabrielle, who is thrown backwards against the opposite wall of the courtyard. Lupin jumps to her, but Tonks is faster. With a low grind the stones of the archway begin to turn and close as Tonks throws herself forward and squeezes through the narrow gap, her body keeping the stones from closing any further. Her hand grabs the side of the closing arch, but there is a second rush of energy past me and Tonks disappears, shoved through the gap and away from it by the sheer force of the spell. _Spell_? Yes, it must be, the wandless, wordless magic that the house elves have always had. The stones seal themselves after her with an ominous rumble, trapping us in Diagon Alley. Lupin is at the wall a second too late, his hands scraping against the stones like a beast’s digging claws.

I turn away from him and watch as tiny shadows materialise from their hiding places and the first waist high figure emerges from between the buildings. There are more on the roofs and dozens scuttling like rats from every possible dark hole. But these are not house elves as we have known them, any more than this is the Diagon Alley of old. The house elves we knew were cringing, obsequious, pitiable, mere bond-servants or slaves. These creatures are barbarians, and warlike-looking ones at that. Instead of ragged Wizarding cast-offs, they wear animal furs, feathers and claws; thin, polished stakes pierce their noses and earlobes.

“Bloody hell, the house elves are attacking!” Harry yelps, always realising the obvious a moment too late. Just when I think this can’t get any more surreal I take a second look at the elves. The stakes piercing through their ears and noses are wand handles – a variety of polished wood, ebony, ash, and willow, probably from the Ollivander’s shop – only now they’re broken off and sharpened and most likely aren’t used as intended by their creator. The nearest elf stretches his face into a feral grimace and waves his empty hand, pushing another bolt of pure magical energy through the air toward us, using nothing but his bare palm, with three tiny shrunken heads and a few galleons dangling off his wrist on thin leather bands.

I sidestep the curse. It flies past me and hits the wall. Reflexes honed in decades of Wizarding warfare have my wand out of my pocket in an instant, its point aimed unerringly at the angry mob of creatures closing in on us. Of course, all such reflexes were rendered useless seven years ago. Behind me there is a sharp crack of wandless Apparation and the tiny child disappears from its spot next to the wall, reappearing almost instantly at the foot of a frowning female with black circles painted with soot around her large, protruding eyeballs. The child clutches at her knee and lets out a demanding cry.

Slowly I step away, until my back is against the solid wall and there is nowhere else to go. The house elf closest to me snaps his fingers and my wand handle grows searing hot. Pain forces my grip to loosen and the sharp pull of a summoning charm rips my wand from my hand. My wand flies through the air like a birch arrow, embedding its tip in the rot-softened wood of a window frame. One of the elves reaches for it.

“More are coming,” Harry cries and suddenly steps out in front of us in a uselessly-protective gesture. Groups of waist-high creatures are quickly filling up Diagon Alley, all wearing feral and threatening frowns. Another spell is thrown right through Harry this time; it does him no harm, yet leaves a shallow dent in the stone wall right above my left ear as I duck out of the way.

“Do something!” Lupin cries.

What can I do? There won’t be enough time for Harry to even attempt to open the entrance a second time before the elves attack. My hand slips into a pocket, closes on one of the ampoules. “Harry, move!” I yell as I throw it down between our attackers and us where Harry just stood.

The ampoule smashes on the cobbles, and explodes into a pyramid of flame, wide as the street, tall as the buildings on either side, burning fiercer than any natural fire, with a flaring white heat.

There are gasps and yells beyond that blinding white wall of flame, but there’s no way of knowing what’s happening on the other side. Another name for Ignis Alba is the Fire Unquenchable; neither water nor cold nor spell nor lack of air will put it out, and it will burn as long as there is any organic matter within reach of the flame. All I can do is hope that the elves didn’t lose their ancient fear of fire – a threat to a household – when they lost their servility.

The first shadows emerge through the smoke-covered roofs. “Run!” I yell at Lupin and do just the same, ducking another spell. “NOW!” I feel the magical surge crackle right next to my head. Blasted elves. I don’t know how they managed to retain their magic through it all.

“Run _where_?” Lupin cries behind me. “We’re trapped!”

I grab him then and shove him into a narrow, shadowy gap between the solid wall and the first store in the street; I leap in after him at once.

“Hey!” Lupin startles, looking around wildly as he runs. “This wasn’t here a few seconds ago.”

Harry follows us closely. “It wasn’t,” he confirms. “What is this place?”

I make sure that we are far enough into the dark alleyway and that we haven’t been followed before I stop to catch my breath. “_This_ is the back way into Knockturn Alley, Potter, and I didn’t expect you to notice it at all, but Lupin on the other hand … I’m shocked.” I stare at the beast in a mockery of innocent surprise. “And to think, you held a job for a year as a Dark Arts expert!” I abandon the faux-surprise in favour of a sneer. “Pitiful.”

“Defence, Severus,” Lupin retorts in a manner entirely too self-righteous, considering I just saved his pompous arse. “But I’m not surprised that you would know every way into this place.”

Which just goes to show the depth of his ignorance. What matters is not what I know of the way, it’s what the way knows of me. “The back way into Knockturn Alley moves around. The only ones who can find it truly belong here.”

“Listen to yourself.” Lupin scoffs. “You’re a Muggle, just like the rest of us. Stop pretending to be a Death Eater and face the facts.”

Lupin may delude himself that he is normal, but that’s just another luxury I can’t afford. If the loss of magic has lightened his burdens, it has done nothing much for mine. Subconsciously my right hand covers my arm, below the elbow, where the Dark Mark still remains. The first time I found this way into Knockturn was right after my Marking. “I’m not ‘pretending’, you cretin. The mere fact that we’re standing here proves that, unlike you, the Knockturn Alley wards can still recognise the Dark Mark, whether it’s active or not.”

Harry frowns at me as I snarl at Lupin, and I round on him. “What?” I bark. “Some scars never fade, or have you forgotten, again?”

His eyes flash. “How can I? You keep reminding me.”

I take a deep breath and try to calm myself enough to stop the lingering dry cough. “Touch nothing,” I warn Lupin. “These wards won’t let you go unharmed.”

We make our way through the winding street which is quickly turning dark after sunset. Knockturn Alley with its uneven roofs and sinister archways finally ends, leading back into Diagon Alley at the turn near Gringotts.

Harry checks the road first for the presence of the elves and then motions for us to cross. Carefully we make our way into the half-destroyed building where just an hour before Tonks had almost broken an ampoule of Ignis Alba.

Lupin sits down against the far wall, next to the fireplace. Harry hovers over the shelves but then makes his way closer to me, sitting down on the edge of a table.

Lupin takes a garish pink lighter out of his back pocket and flips the cover, staring at the small flame it produces. “At least Tonks is all right,” he sighs.

“At least Hermione won’t need her S.P.E.W. badges anymore,” Harry echoes him.

Gryffindors! If there is a positive side, they’ll team up to find it no matter how vague it is. I raise an eyebrow at Harry. “S.P.E.W.?”

“Yeah,” he nods. “Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare.”

For once I can’t stop myself from laughing out loud at the irony.

“What?” he frowns. “I didn’t name it.”

“You may tell Granger that she has her work cut out for her. It appears that the elves do not require their welfare to be promoted any longer.”

“Heh, I’d say!” he chuckles. “Hang on, lemme check on them again,” and disappears through the wall.

I make sure the burn on my wand hand isn’t blistering. Lupin is still examining the jars on the mantel when Harry flies through the locked front door.

“They’re waiting by Flourish and Blotts,” he announces. “If we get round them somehow, I might be able to open the archway again.”

“Not without a wand,” I shake my head. “They summoned mine.”

“Oh,” Harry blinks at me, “then how’re you going to get out of here?”

How indeed? “I’ve been more preoccupied with staying alive than planning our escape.”

“But we have to go back, maybe there’s another way out,” Harry protests.

“Really?” I drawl. “In that case, you may wish to ask the Defence expert” I smirk humourlessly at Lupin, “how to avoid a pack of rabid house elves.”

“We might not have to go all the way back. I have an idea,” Lupin pokes at the unlit hearth. “The Leaky Cauldron has a fireplace. The coals should still be hot.”

A fireplace? Is that his brilliant plan? To whisk us away by a Floo that hasn’t worked for years? “Have you lost your mind?”

Harry drifts up behind him, craning his neck to peer interestedly over his shoulder.

“It doesn’t hurt to try,” Lupin shrugs and picks up the jar of solidified floo powder.

Try what? Using a magical network that hasn’t been active since the blast? I should know: I tried this very fireplace and it didn’t work. “Oh, please do. And if you give it a few centuries, maybe the house elves will reinvent Floo transportation as well as the Wireless and the sodding Knight Bus. I, for one, do not intend to wait that long.”

Lupin kneels at the fireplace with the lighter, ignoring me.

“Er, there’s some paper at the counter that’d probably burn,” Harry says to him.

“Thank you,” he replies ever so politely, smiling at Harry and pointedly not looking in my direction. A minute passes before he coaxes a small flame out of the ash-covered coals and crumpled sheets of paper. With a pocket knife, he manages to break off a few chunks of the solidified powder. He crushes them further between his fingers as Harry watches intently, and carefully tosses them into the small fire.

The flame remains exactly the same colour as before.

“I told you it wouldn’t work.”

“It should,” Lupin protests. “I’ve tried it before at the Leaky Cauldron and the powder never failed to cause a reaction. It never worked for transportation, but I always assumed that’s because the destination fireplaces weren’t lit.”

I imagine Lupin spending his days in front of a burning fireplace and wasting handfuls of floo powder while naming random locations: Hog’s Head, Three Broomsticks, Hogwarts. A Gryffindor, he probably didn’t know when to quit.

“You have floo powder at home?” Harry beams.

“Not any more,” Lupin shakes his head sadly. “I ran out, years ago.” Squandered the lot of it, the idiot. He stares at the jar in his hands. “This batch must’ve gone bad.”

I see the first shadows moving at the nearby intersection and press myself flat against the wall. “Silence! They’re coming.”

Lupin exchanges worried looks with Harry. “We need something to barricade the entrance.”

“There’s no time,” I hiss at him. “Put the fire out now! You can see it from the street.” Perhaps if we sit this one out they won’t notice us. Maybe then we might stand a chance of getting out of here unharmed.

Instead Lupin pulls off his coat and leaves it hanging over the mantelpiece, blocking most of the light. “No,” he says calmly. “That’s our only way out.”

Harry moves past me and pokes his head out through the gap in the wall. “They’re getting closer,” he whispers. I lean over to see for myself. “No!” he stops me. “They’ll see you. They have very good night vision.” For once I regret that I do not have Harry’s ability to stay perfectly invisible to others if he wishes. Behind the shelves I hear the muffled sound of a clay jar breaking: Lupin, still messing about with the floo powder.

“Listen,” Harry says. His glasses glisten in the first light of the moon – nearly full – rising over the rooftops. “Just wanted you to know, I didn’t forget about your Mark back then,” he whispers hastily. “I know what you were – are – and … And I don’t care.”

“It takes more to make a Death Eater than an ugly tattoo, Potter.”

“I know! And I should hate you, and I know that too. But I don’t. I can’t! Lately I’ve started every morning just waiting for you to wake up and say something to me, and I’ve watched you sleep for hours and I can’t hate you.” He blinks and looks down, as if afraid that his outburst was heard by Lupin.

I take pity on him. “How close are the elves?”

He glances outside, seizing on the distraction I offer. “Close,” he whispers. “Maybe they’ll turn around.”

Unlike Harry, I am not so optimistic. They’re about as likely to suddenly turn around in the middle of the street as they are to call us ‘Master’ and ask us the meaning of S.P.E.W.

“Remember I asked you what you’d do if I was alive?” Harry says then. “I never told you what I’d do.”

I quirk my mouth into a small smile. “Enlighten me.”

“I reckon I ought to show you instead. This is the perfect time for something drastic.” He’s standing too close. Even in this sparse light I can see every silvery strand of his fringe. He bites his lip and looks at me, a question lingering in his stare.

I don’t need him to ask that question aloud. I clear my throat. “You aren’t alive, Harry. And that’s another thing” like the Mark, “I’d prefer not to forget.”

Behind me the flames sizzle and flare green. “See,” Lupin smiles triumphantly, “that did the trick. All I had to do was to use the powder from the bottom of the jar.”

“Shh,” I hiss at him; if the house elves’ sight is keen, surely their hearing is also acute.

Soon there is another round of crackling and sparks with Lupin’s voice enunciating “The Leaky Cauldron”. I turn around. He’s still here.

“That’s odd,” he says. “Perhaps the fireplace back home went out.”

And perhaps if I knock him out and offer him to the house elves they’ll let me go. “Silence!”

At last he listens to me and ducks behind the row of shelves, first throwing a handful of ash over the flames.

“They’re here,” Harry whispers. I freeze against the wall, behind a pile of rubble. In my chest the air feels like lead. My own heartbeat pulses at a frantic pace in my ears.

All is silent and in that silence my thoughts cycle frantically. Perhaps they won’t notice us. Perhaps they’ll turn around. But logic tells me that they know we’re here, that they’re gathering their forces, organising for the attack. They’ve lived in this place for years. They’ve turned Diagon Alley into their home, and we are the invaders.

In the moonlight falling through the gap in the wall, I see a long-eared shadow moving silently closer. I press myself deeper into the shadows and hold my breath until the air starts to burn my lungs. I notice my hand moving of its own accord, searching my pockets instinctively for the wand I no longer have. I close my fist around one of the ampoules instead, smooth and deceptively cool in my palm.

Across from the entrance, Harry’s worried gaze is fixed on me. His face shimmers with the same pale opalescence as the incendiary potion. Seeing his determination makes me want to believe that there’s a chance I will get out of this alive.

Slowly, the shadow begins to move away.

Without warning the silence is shattered by a loud metallic ringing from Lupin’s direction. I startle, gasp, and gasp again; it’s as if the sudden shock has driven all the air from my lungs.

The shadow at the entrance twitches and the elf gives a shriek that’s even louder than the ringing.

The tightness in my chest expands into shooting agony, sapping the strength from my limbs. With a desperate effort, I throw the ampoule through the gap in the wall. It explodes into brilliant white, blocking the entrance.

If I live through this, the thought flies through my mind, I’d very much like to see what Harry considers ‘drastic’. I’d let him bring me into his dreamscapes, and maybe even see where they would lead.

Through the deep white fog thickening in my mind, I think I hear Lupin’s distant voice: “Found your mobile? I thought you put it through the wash last month.” But the words make no sense. _Harry_? Then the irregular beat in my ears drowns out all other sound and the world fades away.

*

I wake in an unfamiliar place, thirsty and with an atrocious headache. The pillows are too soft and so is the bed. The darkened room is larger and emptier than my own bedroom. A narrow rectangle of light spills from the half-opened door. I can hear traffic outside the window and two muffled female voices in the doorway.

“Oh, dear, it’d be fine if you just let it grow an inch or two and stop wearing a cap all the time. It’s such a beautiful light colour.”

“It’s nearly grey! People mistake me for an old woman and offer me their seats on the bus.”

“Well, I s’pose we could dye it,” there is a sound of a drawer opening and someone rummaging through it, “Pink or green?”

“No, stay away!” There’s a squeal and a shout of: “Papa! She is doing it again!”

Tonks’ triumphant laugh is overlapped by another girlish shriek. “Papa!”

“Er … Tonks? I think she looks fine as is,” a tentative voice – Harry’s – interrupts.

He’s answered by an exasperated sigh. “I do not! It is grey!”

I listen to them bicker for another minute until Harry’s head pops through the wall right over the headboard and looks down at me. “Hi there,” he grins and emerges fully, perching on the side of the bed. “You’re awake.”

Harry and his habit of stating the obvious. I arch an eyebrow at him. “Really? I haven’t noticed.”

He narrows his eyes and gives me a stern glare. “Very funny! Everyone was worried.”

“Oh, I’m sure they were worried sick.” I drawl in my driest voice.

“They were, and so was I!” he cries. “What happened?”

I look around and let my eyes get used to the dark. I recognise the room now. It’s changed a lot since I’ve been here last, but I’ve stayed here once: it’s one of the upstairs rooms over the Leaky Cauldron. It used to contain a bed and a chair, but now bookshelves and a small table have been brought in. The light from the doorway falls across the spines of some of the books: I can make out _Magical Beasts_ and _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ wedged in between a copy of the _Metropolitan Police Manual_ and a pamphlet titled _The Gender Agenda: Women Officers Clearing Hurdles Together_.

“I should ask you that question,” I finally answer. I wonder how much Harry has really worked out.

“Dunno,” he shrugs. “After you started that fire you just collapsed on the spot. Remus had to drag you into the fireplace. We’re lucky Tonks found her mobile and called him just then. That’s how she knew to light the fire. D’you remember anything?”

He doesn’t know. Good. “There must’ve been an incapacitating spell among the wards set on those ampoules. Or I simply managed to set off one of the slow-acting wards in Knockturn Alley,” I say nonchalantly. “Fortunately they’ve been weakened over time.”

“Oh,” Harry forces out a harsh laugh. “You scared me. I thought you were … er, forget it. It’s mental.”

I try my best to sound casually reassuring as I ask with my best butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth smirk: “How could you think _I_ would be so callous as to burden _dear_ Lupin with awkward explanations of my demise, in addition to everything else he went through today?”

Harry chuckles shaking his head. “Good,” he beams at me. “Great to have you back!” His hand slides over the blanket to my elbow, not quite touching it. “I don’t think I’d want to haunt anyone else.”

“You’d be better off with someone else. You should’ve taken up Granger’s offer.”

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head furiously. “If you weren’t here I’d probably go back to Hogwarts. I think I like haunting places more than people …” he looks up at me grinning. “‘Cept for you.”

“Stubborn brat. What am I going to do with you?” I turn down the blanket and shift over to the edge of the bed. The room starts swimming in front of my eyes and for a second it looks as though there’s more than one Harry staring at me.

“Er,” they say in unison. “Maybe you shouldn’t try sitting up so soon.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” I blink and remain still, clutching the edge of the bed until the throbbing in my skull ebbs and the two images of Harry slowly ease back into one.

“You must be better,” Harry smirks. “You’re back to your usual pleasant self.”

“I’m fine. See?” I swing my feet over the edge of the bed and onto the floor and try to ignore the fact that my body feels twice as heavy and my limbs numb. “What time is it?” I glance at the window. It’s pitch dark outside.

“Ten,” Harry answers. “You’ve been out of it for a while. Tonks was ready to take you to the hospital, but your breathing turned steady again and you seemed to be better so Remus said to wait and let you rest.”

“Ah, of course! Murdering me didn’t work the first time, so he was hoping his feral little friends would finish me off,” I mutter searching for my second shoe next to the bed. “What was his fallback plan? Suffocating me with a pillow?”

“He’s not evil,” Harry frowns. “He and Tonks took care of three students from your House. Raised them, helped them to adjust to Muggle school. They’re all coming back to visit this weekend.”

I nearly laugh at the picture of Lupin keeping some of my Slytherins out of trouble. I hope they were all first-years, troublesome little buggers. “Did he? I suppose it’s a step up from throwing them to the wolves.”

“Oh, stop it!” Harry cries. “Remus isn’t a monster! He was worried about you.”

Of course he was; so distraught that he never left my bedside. But mercy or weariness prevents me from voicing this observation, and from wondering aloud why Harry was the only one who bothered to check whether I was awake. “Waste of effort,” I grumble instead. “There was nothing to worry about.”

*

I follow Harry down the narrow staircase to the room that used to be a pub downstairs at the Leaky Cauldron. It’s much better lit now than it used to be. The tables are all gone except for one in the corner by the fireplace where Lupin and Tonks sit, laughing, half-hidden behind takeaway boxes scattered on the tabletop.

“… the old times,” I catch a part of their conversation. “Remember when Kingsley and I and you and your Boys and half the people from Diagon Alley we hardly knew all turned up and stayed upstairs that summer? I won’t miss all those bloody arguments over who had money for food.” Tonks laughs. “And remember how we had to draw straws each week for who’d do the cooking, and I drew the first short straw and kept threatening to leave before the week was out? Look at me now, years later everyone’s moved on and I’m still here.”

“With us,” Lupin says softly to her. “We’re here too. And I got better at cooking.”

The girl, her hair still grey despite Tonks’ earlier threats, squeezes herself in between them, quiet and still, very much like the Leaky Cauldron that occupies the space between the record store and the bookstore, unnoticed at the first glance.

“Papa, did you know Tonks could run that fast?” she asks quietly. “I did not.”

Lupin smiles. “She has plenty of hidden talents. Dodging house elf attacks isn’t all of them by far.” He gives her shoulder a cheerful little pat. “There’s our SuperTonks.”

Tonks guffaws and her hand reaches out to tweak his ear. Lupin bats it away. His face reddens as Tonks’ smirk widens, then she notices me on the stairway. “Severus. You’re better.”

“Dinner?” Lupin gestures with a polite smile. I shake my head.

“Here,” Tonks grins. “Have a shot of this. We’re celebrating.” She upends a hip-flask over an empty glass and slides it in my direction.

I arch an eyebrow as Gabrielle warily takes a sip from Tonks’ nearly empty glass and makes a face at it, reaching for the water. “Celebrating?” What is there to celebrate?

Lupin chimes in. “The reopening of Diagon Alley, the first foray into the Wizarding world and the first successful Floo transportation this decade. Though I probably shouldn’t take all credit for that one, after all there were other parties involved” he glances at me pointedly “but mainly this historical date will go down in history as the day Tonks finally used her mobile,” he concludes with a smile so polite it can hardly be called real. “Care to make a toast, Severus?”

I refuse to spare him another look. Instead I walk over on my still shaky legs and pick up the offered glass. Out of the corner of my eye I glance at Harry and the sceptical way he’s eyeing the whisky in my hand, the same way I sometimes catch him looking at the bottles in my kitchen.

I raise the glass to Harry. “To magic,” I toast, but after only the tiniest sip of the spirits, I cast most of the glassful into the fireplace. The burning coals hiss and the fire flares briefly white, reminding me of the last ampoule of Ignis Alba, still in my shirt pocket. As I put the empty glass back on the table I watch Harry hovering over the flames, his glow mingling with theirs until he seems almost a part of them, a risen phoenix, beaming as he shares in the toast to magic, in his own unique way.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here,” Lupin says, draining the rest of his glass. “We don’t have magic back yet. But we will soon! Severus, have you heard about Molly Weasley’s youngest?”

“Oh?” I allow a sarcastic smirk to linger on my lips. “Can’t say I have.” Behind me I hear Harry’s muffled snort.

“And now that we know that the Floo works, with most of the fireplaces spelled to keep the coals hot for weeks, we have a way to access the Wizarding world again,” Lupin exclaims to the nodding Tonks without paying any attention to my answer. “We just have to light them, one after the other, and keep them lit.”

I look at them and wonder what good it can possibly do to risk one’s skin to relight the fireplaces just for the sake of being able to Floo from one ruin to another.

Behind them Gabrielle Delacour rolls her eyes and casts me a knowing look. “It is past their bedtime,” she mouths. “They get that way.”

“So,” Tonks asks him with a mischievous glance. “That’d mean you’d want the rest of your blasted floo powder back? Besides the handful in your pocket?”

Lupin’s eyebrows climb up to his forehead. “You had it? I knew there was another jar.”

“Someone had to take it away,” Tonks shrugs. “You singed your eyebrows and we were tired of you yelling into the fireplace for days. But you can have it back if it makes you happy.”

“Best of luck,” I deadpan at the still stunned Lupin. “Next time, do make sure you use a sealed container to transport the floo powder by Floo, otherwise you might end up arriving at your final destination entirely singed.” I lean against the mantel and take a deep breath in hope that warm air will calm the dry cough still threatening to burst out of my chest at any minute. Then I turn toward the door.

“Stay,” Tonks offers. “Have another glass. And drink it this time!”

“No, thank you,” I reply. “I’d best be on my way. Good evening.” I turn and walk away without regrets.

“Wait,” I hear in the alley behind me and at first I think it’s Harry asking me to slow down, but he is just as surprised, looking back. Gabrielle is standing outside with the mobile in her hand. “It is late,” she says. “And you do not look strong enough to walk. I can call a cab for you.”

I almost accept her offer. It’s the only genuine one I’ve had here all day. “It’s not necessary, Miss Delacour,” I murmur. “But thank you.”

“Come back this weekend,” Gabrielle offers. “This place is busier then. The Boys will be glad to see you; you taught them, didn’t you? I like you,” she smiles a thin-lipped smile at Harry and me. “You are nice to your ghost.”

At that I give a small smile and a nod, but I don’t reply aloud. It’s easier to keep silent than to lie, and I already know that I probably won’t be able to come back, not this weekend, not ever.

She still stands in the doorway, mobile in her hand, as Harry and I turn the corner, a short, hooded outline – dark and thin – against the yellow rectangle of light. I wish I could’ve afforded a cab. It’s a long way home and I’m already out of breath, and it’ll take all of my concentration to keep Harry from noticing and worrying.

*

I make sure I am alone at first, although Harry never bothers me in the bathroom any more.

I don’t usually use the electric lights, but just this once candles aren’t enough. There are plenty of things going through my mind as I stare into the mirror. I press two fingers into my left wrist and count my pulse. My hands are cold and clammy: they rarely get like this. It’s unusual. This isn’t right.

I must remain calm. It certainly won’t do to give in to panic.

I unfasten the buttons of my shirt, first the sleeves and then from my neck down. I pull the shirt off and look carefully in the mirror at the scar that stretches in a jagged white line from my right shoulder diagonally across my chest. I examine the wide band of scar tissue inch by inch. Is it my imagination or has it grown wider over time? It seems so in this light, but I can’t tell for certain. I should have thought of it sooner and taken precise measurements over the course of several months. I would’ve, if I hadn’t been too reluctant to know for certain how little time I truly have. But my time is running out and there is no denying it any longer.

I try to measure my pulse again and stare in the mirror; without my magic, observation is the only crude diagnostic method I have left.

The scar has to be the cause of the symptoms. How else can I explain the chest pains radiating to my spine and causing me to slump forward each time I feel them, the shortness of breath, the dry cough I’ve had lately, if not from the scar spreading?

In the last few weeks I’ve grown complacent, thinking that, like Harry, I had all the time in the world. I was wrong.

My scar is growing, and with the way it’s cutting through my chest, so close to my heart, fibres of scar tissue must have begun to infiltrate my lungs and the membranes around my heart, stretching and inflaming them. Those swollen tissues, or build-up of fluid around the heart, would in turn place more and more pressure on the heart itself. I am in no position to diagnose the details of what is happening to me, yet even now I can’t stop myself from wishing for a miracle. If only the complications from splinching were as easy to reverse with the wave of a wand as splinching itself, but I descended into unfamiliar territory after leaving the wound untreated for this long. Now I am dealing not so much with a wound itself but with years’ worth of damage to the infiltrated tissues around it. And going to a Muggle doctor is still as much out of the question now as it was years ago when the wound was fresh.

Although the National Health Service supposedly ensures that even people who can’t afford to pay for their own medical care can receive treatment, in practice the wait for specialised operations often lasts months or years. But the reasons I can never show this scar to a Muggle doctor have nothing to do with my poverty. No doctor worth the name would fail to notice that the scar tissue is not confined to my skin, but is a solid plane stretching through the entire thickness of my body. Faced with clear evidence that I have healed from an injury that sliced me in two, all the effort I had put into hiding from the Muggle authorities would be wasted. With my careful cover blown, I would be subjected to _medical research_, out of the eyes of the public and beyond the feeble protections of Muggle laws, as all too many witches and wizards were, in the dark days immediately after the disaster.

If only Ginny Weasley’s magic was controllable enough to cast a Healing spell. Even a diagnostic charm would show the extent and nature of the damage, let me take measures to prolong the time I have left. If this was anything less delicate than cardiac blood vessels I’d take the chance. But as things are, I’d sooner let a Muggle idiot with a scalpel hack me into pieces than have an instant heart attack from a botched spell focused through a borrowed wand, powered by second-hand magic from a foetus, and cast by a squib who didn’t even finish her magical education.

No, I must accept the inevitable rather than avoiding it by clutching at false hopes of future and magic and time. I do not have time. My heart will fail. I had hoped it would be months but at this rate, I doubt I even have weeks to go.

It’s nothing new. I’ve been living on borrowed time ever since Lucius shoved that portkey in my hand – no, even sooner than that, since I gave myself up to Dumbledore – and I certainly shouldn’t be surprised now that my time has finally run out. It’s a wonder, really, that I’ve lasted this long, a pawn to two powerful masters for years. I am fortunate to have a warning days before the event, instead of no warning at all.

I’ll have to finish matters I’ve been putting off. I’ll have to burn some of my notes and decide what to do with my books. I’ll have to write a few letters; I’ll have to see Draco about my will. I’ll have to make sure I take care of everything before it’s too late.

Except it already is too late, and everything I have to do isn’t worth fretting about. Why must I worry about my books and my possessions and this forsaken flat in the middle of nowhere? None of it matters. Harry’s the only one who does, and I can’t take care of him in my will. How does one provide for a ghost? How does one say farewell to one?

I have to believe that with time Harry will forgive me for not giving him much warning. Leaving him unprepared for what lies ahead is the last thing I want to do; I hope he’ll understand that. His company during these past months had made my life bearable, made me think that it was worth something more than borrowed time. I wish I could recompense him for his willingness to fix my life, and do something for him in return.

Harry, hopeless fool, dreams of the way things used to be and of the way they might have been. He wants happiness and playful banter and joint shopping trips with delays in the back alley. He wants himself alive and me not caring about such trivialities as my age or the consequences of my actions. He dreams of magic and Hogwarts and I fear that is where he’d end up after I’m gone, wandering the abandoned castle for years without a soul to talk to, waiting for a miracle that would never occur, losing himself in a world made of dreamscapes and ruins. But I don’t want that for him. I want him to live, not to go on haunting an empty ruin. He hardly had a chance to enjoy life while he was still living it. And perhaps for that reason I feel obliged to help him make at least one of his dreams come true, since it’s not in my power to fulfil the others.

I draw a bath and watch the mirror fog up with steam. The ideas that begin forming in my mind are the most insane and impossible sort, the kind Harry would call ‘brilliant’ although they’re anything but that. Still, what do I have to lose?

I think of random things: of the fireplaces at Hogwarts, the Great Hall, and the nearby classrooms. If only one could get past the wards to reach them. I think of my personal wards: carefully crafted, coded to my own magical signature since I didn’t trust any other method for fear of Polyjuice and a variety of transformative and camouflaging spells. The pains I took to secure my rooms have, ironically enough, placed them completely beyond my reach now, but the Hogwarts wards might have a weakness somewhere. They have to have them. Wards as complicated as those in a castle with as many exits as Hogwarts can’t remain absolutely foolproof. There have to be security breaches and exceptions we did not consider when we recast the protective spells year after year. There are passages into the Hogsmeade cellars and hidden doors leading into France or India. With so many ways out of the castle there has to be at least one remaining way in.

Now that we have a relatively safe way to travel through the Wizarding world, it is only a matter of time until more fireplaces are lit and more passages become available to the first explorers who dare to venture into the ruins of their former homes. All it would take to get to Hogwarts nowadays is one person and a successfully lit fireplace. The others will follow, sooner or later.

It’s not exactly Hogwarts reopened, as Harry wants it, but at least he won’t be so alone in it when my time comes.

*

Harry is gone. I look for him, in my room and in the kitchen, dark and silent as a tomb, before I realise that he’s left this place for good. It’s a dream, I reassure myself. It’s only a dream. How many times will my nightmare shift into this new version of itself before it lets me out of its clutches? My flat feels empty and dark and cold, and I don’t want this to go on any longer. Through the narrow corridor, I return to my room still hoping to find Harry sitting on the windowsill or looking at the bookcase.

I step inside, but the place I walked into is too small and dark to be my room. The ceiling is too narrow and my room certainly doesn’t have dry roots brushing against my face. The tunnel. I turn back, but there’s only the tunnel wall behind me and in front of me, and I can only run either right or left.

It’s not real, I tell myself. But that doesn’t help. In the dark I can almost sense the werewolf’s panting. How long will it take for the nightmare to run its course this time? It all ends there sooner or later, and Harry wouldn’t be there to pull me away before the monster’s jaws snap against my shoulder. This time I must let the nightmare last through the massacre. It’s better this way, for both of us.

The distant creak of a door breaking down sounds in the distance followed by an echoing howl. At the same time, a chilling thought enters my mind: what if this isn’t a dream and when I wake up, Harry will still be gone? My heart races and my chest is heavy. This isn’t good. It’s not good at all. I must remain calm through this, which means that running is out of the question. I can’t afford to risk heart failure because of a sodding nightmare!

I shut my eyes and remain as quiet as possible against the cold tunnel wall. Maybe if I pretend long enough I can convince myself that I am elsewhere and make the dream change. Why not? Harry used to do this all the time. I am at home, I tell myself. I am in the hallway about to walk into my room. I haven’t done it yet and the doorway is right in front of me, right over there. All I have to do is take one step forward and …

“Come on, what took you so long?” the familiar voice urges from the room. Relief washes over me and, eyes still closed, I step forward into the illusion. It’s dark, but it’s a warm and comfortable kind of darkness without a cold draught or invisible eyes watching from the shadows, and it almost seems real. By feel I find my way over to my chair and sit down, resting my head against the worn leather. Finally, I’m safe; Harry’s rescued me out of the nightmare yet again.

It’s not real, I remind myself. It’s no more real than the tunnel, just one of the seemingly harmless dreams that I asked Harry not to create again. And yet he did. He is a few steps away. I can hear him as he moves in the dark: awkward footsteps and strained breathing. He exhales, blowing life into the candle he is holding in his hand and the darkness fades. The flame flickers and stays lit, casting long shadows on the rows of books along the wall and reflecting in Harry’s glasses, and so looking twice as bright as a candle usually does.

“Before you say anything, this is the last time,” he speaks before I can. “I promise. Would you like an oath?”

I shake my head and stare at the candle and its twin reflections. “No.”

He nods. “Thanks. You won’t regret it.”

I look down and blink, trying to rid my vision of the bright green remainders of a candle flame dancing in front of my eyes. I really should ask him to end the dream. I have no right to let this continue, but now that I am here, I can’t bring myself to halt it. Besides, he promised. I trust him to keep his word.

“So,” he sighs, standing awkwardly in the middle of my room. “S-since you’re here…”

His feet are planted firmly on the floor. Slowly I look up, noting the way the candle in his hands leaves flickering gold highlights on his glasses and in his tousled hair. He seems too short now; I’ve grown so accustomed to finding his face at or above my level as he hovers, airborne and transparent.

“Stay?” Harry blinks at the light. “Just for tonight.” He falters. “M’not going to try anything. Honest! It’s just the last time I’ll get to be near someone like this. For a while at least.”

He doesn’t know how right he might be. And if that’s the case, I will not let him spend his existence alone, not if I can help it. Harry is not an ordinary ghost. He feels and he lives and he is so easily hurt by the silence of the others. He needs someone to keep him company, someone to let him know that he exists and matters in this world, someone to talk to and maybe even someone to love. If it’s the last thing I do, I will make sure he has that. I need to know that he won’t be left alone when I’m gone.

The candle weeps hot wax, sliding down over the narrow base of the candle holder and onto Harry’s fingers wrapped around it too high. Silly fool does not pay attention to it at all. On its own accord, my hand reaches out. I stop myself halfway before ever touching him and drop my hand down limply against the arm rest. Should I tell him the truth? Or should I wait until the time comes that I can’t write my condition off to warding spells or advancing age?

I wrestle with myself just as I do with my thoughts – with my own limbs, the direction of my gaze, the expression on my face. Can Harry read my thoughts in his dreamscapes? He watches intently, as if trying to figure out a puzzle. I know that look, it’s the same look he had just before he acted so rashly in the last dream. This time he doesn’t move, just gives me a smile, wistful and bitter. “If you trusted me enough to possess you,” he says softly, “then why don’t you trust me enough to touch me? What did I do wrong?”

It’s not him I don’t trust, it’s myself. Isn’t that clear to him by now? I am too involved in him to stay rational.

“Answer me.”

Suddenly I have nothing to say. I look down at my traitorous hand, at Harry sitting down on the floor, and try not to think of what this urge for contact signifies. I really shouldn’t make this any more complicated than it already is.

I should not, especially when it’s all so perfectly clear. I’ve wondered why I didn’t stop this from happening before. Why didn’t I stop Harry in my last dream? But the answer is so simple I mustn’t avoid it. Deep inside, I wanted it, as much as he did. I still want it, selfishly and madly: his company, his smiles, his impulsiveness and his dreams. As impossible as it seems to be affected this way by a scrawny whelp barely old enough – not old enough, not bright enough, not ambitious enough – not Lucius. No, he is not Lucius at all. Yet I am still drawn to him when I have no right to be.

“Fine,” he spits out and his breath makes the candle light flicker. “Don’t answer.”

I look then and see the desperation flickering in his eyes like the trembling, unsteady light of a candle flame.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He did only what his heart and his mind told him was right to do. Only it isn’t right at all and it won’t ever be right. He’s dead and I’ve been living on borrowed time since Lucius shoved his portkey into my hand, and this time is finally running out.

“It’s ‘cause I’m a ghost, isn’t it?” He asks and runs his fingers through the flame of a candle, back and forth. Dumbledore used to do that often, touch the flame briefly with his fingertips and pull back, as if petting a timid animal prone to biting. Harry is not as quick but if the exposure to the flame burns him, his face doesn’t show it. “With you, I don’t even feel dead,” he shrugs and tilts his head at the flame. “I feel alive.” He sets the candle carefully on the floor at my feet then and reaches out toward me then with the same hand that seconds ago reached so boldly into the fire.

“See.”

I do not see. I’ve shut my eyes and my face is as tense as my fingers digging into the edge of the seat. It’s such a foolish, absurd thing to fear, but I am afraid: afraid that if do watch him reach out I’ll pull back, but even more afraid of what might happen at the contact if I don’t pull back in time.

All is dark and for seconds I cannot tell if the air around me was stirred by his motions or by my own breathing. “Feel that?” he whispers. Then I do feel: the slight pressure of his lips, no, his fingers, at the corner of my mouth.

“This is real.”

It is. It feels more real than all the recent years of my life spent trying to avoid human contact. I turn my head, I freeze, I hold my breath until I nearly cannot feel the softness of his fingertips travelling across my mouth and my jaw line. Until I can pretend that it’s just an illusion, but then his knuckles, dry and rough, scrape against my neck, his fingers sliding along the tight inner edge of my collar, pulling it tight: not enough to choke but enough to be uncomfortable. I swallow harshly and his fingers still for a second at the hollow of my throat, then make their way down freeing the topmost button on my collar through its buttonhole. The loss of its pressure feels awkward as the collar loosens instantly against my neck. I can’t do this, I must stop him, touch him, say something. I can’t pretend any longer.

“Don’t.” I finally speak, abrupt and dry. I should’ve stopped him much earlier than this. I should never have agreed to this dream, just a dream. “It won’t last.” It can’t. This won’t make anything better. I’ll only wake and I’ll hate it that I cannot touch him. It won’t change the facts: that my time here is so short, while he could be here forever.

“Don’t what? This?” he murmurs, his fingers fumbling at another button. “Look at me.” It sounds like a command. But instead of the following slap of Lucius’ fine leather glove against my jaw there is only Harry’s touch, warm and soft.

I open my eyes, slowly, and find Harry’s face inches from my own, staring at me in a manner that should feel more discomforting than this. His searching gaze should not be so disconcerting, the lower edge of his glasses fogging up slightly and his eyes shining in the dark: vivid and bright. The sight of his mouth, opened slightly, should not make me want to move forward and meet him halfway.

“I _can_ touch you,” he says softly, and the desperation on his face is that of a child believing with naïve conviction that people live forever and death is a lie just because it hurts too much to think otherwise. “And if _feels_ real. S’all that matters. It _is_ real, ‘till morning.”

“Precisely! Until morning.”

“Yes!” he cries. “And the morning isn’t here yet! No reason to hurry it. Is there?”

“And what do you suppose will happen if we don’t hurry it? Or in all the mornings afterwards?” And what will happen to him in the morning when I’m no longer here?

“Not like we’ve got anything to lose,” he protests.

We indeed have nothing, and that is the only way we lasted this far. “Harry,” I tell him – he looks up, his eyes green and glistening – “Harry, listen. The best way to hurt someone who has nothing is to give him just a glimpse of something wonderful. Something he can’t keep.” And in that way, perhaps, he had already hurt me.

His fingers travel to rest on my shoulder, then forearm, and finally cover my hand. “I see,” he sighs but then his eyes grow wide and hopeful and he adds breathlessly, in a ragged whisper. “So can I? Keep _you_.”

Hopeless fool! What does he think he is asking for? I don’t own my life, so how can I give it away? If only it was mine to give, I think I would let him have it. But I _can’t_. And therefore he will have to settle for the next best thing. ‘Having nothing, nothing he can lose.’ I’ll make sure that’s the way it’s going to stay for him.

And so I curl my fingers slowly, stealthily around his and hold on until his eyes on mine are no longer wild, until he loses his death grip on my wrist. I try not to think about how strange my hand looks over his, bony and pale and laced with a network of veins. Even now I am too afraid to tell him the truth, so I choke out a white lie that rings too close to the truth, in a voice too low to rise above a whisper.

“You already have me.”

I shouldn’t have said that to him, but it’s too late and I can’t take it back. He flinches and his grasp turns nearly strong enough to hurt, nearly strong enough to break a bone. Slowly he raises our clasped hands to his eye level. His lips are dry and cracked on my skin, and probably bitten to the point of going numb. I can feel his breath, warm against my hand. I can see the green of his irises. I can feel the growing ache deep in my chest. Imagined? Real? “No,” I tell him softly. Don’t push this any further. Don’t force me to end this.

For a moment the look in his eyes suggests he’ll do something rash and reckless and sudden – drastic – but he simply drops his forehead against my hand, his hands grasping it tight. “I hate you,” he says. “For saying something like that and then stopping me, like this. I can’t help it! Is it too horrible of me?”

A wry snort – mine – surprises me as much as if heard from Harry’s lips: a sound of weary, ironic amusement at a world where there is nothing else left to do but laugh in spite of it all. “You’re in good company,” I murmur. “I already hate myself.”

He scowls. Now he looks more like his normal self. “Don’t,” he says. “S’not your fault; I told you.”

Yes he did, many times, but I’d rather not fight with him at a time like this. I’d like this last meeting with him in dreams to be memorable for something other than an argument. “Can you do something for me?” I ask him instead.

“Name it!”

I think of his first dreamscape and Harry changing the surroundings rapidly from one place to another. “Take me somewhere.”

He nods. I think he too understands the urge to make this last meeting memorable. “Close your eyes.”

I do. At first nothing changes, then there is a bare change in the sound. Running water beneath us growing stronger, more substantial every second and a rumbling echo above us. I lift my face to it.

“Go on,” Harry says.

I open my eyes then and see the wide stretch of the bridge against the blue sky. Feel the cool breeze against my skin, tugging at my hair, making the waves dance at our feet. The river is right beneath us, all around us, wide and shining and invitingly peaceful, splashing drops of cool water against my face.

I know this place. In just a few minutes’ walk from here the Strand leads onto Fleet Street where Molly Weasley works. The bridge we are under is Waterloo. The same bridge I took him to see a few weeks ago. The same bridge the careless brat jumped from into the Thames, just to see the river up close. I am looking at the Thames’ waters in a way I never expected to see them: as Harry had seen them, after jumping over the edge and walking on water far underneath.

“Is this good enough?” Harry asks from a few feet away.

Good enough? It’s just right. This place suits him.

I leave the shadow underneath the bridge and walk toward him. Walking on water. It should be as unsteady and unsettling as walking on ice, but the ripples rise to meet my feet, helping my balance instead of hindering it, adding a spring and a bounce to every step. Harry gives me one of those beaming smiles that leave no doubt in my mind: whatever thoughts are running through his head, they are undoubtedly ‘brilliant’.

“What are you smiling about?” I murmur, wry and fond.

He shrugs and the smile still lingers on his face. “Just thinking, I s’pose.”

“What about?”

“Y’really want to know?”

“I asked, didn’t I?”

“All right. Remember what I said in the park,” he mumbles.

My vision of the Cheshire Cheese and Harry in it comes rushing back. “I certainly do.”

“I reckon if I was alive and asked you, you’d say yes. It wouldn’t be too hard to convince you. I thought of it today, seeing Tonks and Remus, together. If they could make it, maybe, just maybe there’s hope – I mean – would’ve been hope for us too.”

I know what he’s doing, the fool. He desperately wants hope and a future, something he and I can never have. And it’s not fair of me to offer Harry even a glimpse of something I can’t ever give him, no matter how much he wants it to happen. “It’s no use thinking of what could’ve been,” I mutter guiltily.

“Course,” he nods and his smile fades from his face. “But you’d still say yes. If I was alive, I’d’ve made sure of it.”

This may be the last time I’ll ever see Harry like this, as his dreaming self. With his hair a dark solid mass tangled by the wind, and his hands warm in mine and with his eyes bright green and surprised looking up at me with an unspoken question. For a brief second I picture myself losing my head, allowing myself to act on impulse, taking a chance: the one I’d never take but can’t stop imagining, no matter how impossible and reckless it seems.

I think of Harry again, at the entrance to the Cheshire Cheese, not paying any attention to me as he walks out. But this time I stop him before he passes me and disappears down Fleet Street: I call out his name and catch his eye and I do not let him look away. I walk closer and closer until his back is against the brick wall of the alley and he has nowhere to go. Then I lean forward, reaching out, keeping him there, keeping him still, and without thinking twice, without any idea of what’ll happen afterwards, I grab his shoulders, press my mouth against his, and taste the warmth of his lips, on pure abandon, just as he would do. Just as he has already done. I picture us without repercussions in a world a thousand dreams away.

“What’re you thinking?” Harry murmurs. It ends my reverie at once. I look down at him and drink in the sight of his sunlit face and his carefree smile and his bright leaf-green eyes shining, and I try to memorise every unruly hair falling onto his forehead and every gleam reflecting in his eyes, the warmth of his breath and the feel of his skin. It will have to be enough; it will have to last me until the end. This moment is a gift, a treasure I never expected life to drop into my hands, just like this, without any warning whatsoever.

“Nothing,” I tell him when I can speak past the lump in my throat. “Water under the bridge.”

He blinks at first, but his silence doesn’t last long; it never does. “‘Course,” He waves his arm at the ancient river and gives me that boyish grin. “Loads of it.”

Impossible brat!

  


* * *

  
_Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results._ Snape is paraphrasing [Albert Einstein](http://www.wisdomquotes.com/002899.html).

Tonks’ pamphlet _The Gender Agenda: Women Officers Clearing Hurdles Together_ can be found [here](http://www.bawp.org/GenderAgenda.htm) if anyone is interested.


	8. Silence

 

 

*

Snape’s been silent lately and I can’t stand it. In the mornings it’s the same old routine: him waking up, me watching him in the kitchen, him boiling the water for coffee and then sitting down at the table, blank-faced, his fingers curled around the warm mug as if it’s the coldest day of December instead of a bright June morning. He’s hiding something, or hiding _from_ something. Is it something I did? Didn’t do? Well, whatever it is, I get enough of his silence when he’s asleep; I don’t need that same silence during the day.

He never tells me about himself, his past. About anything, really. And I’m sure he has loads to tell, and there are times I think he’ll say something but he always stops himself at the last second. Although maybe that’s just as well, in a way, ‘cause there are lots of things I don’t tell him either. Like how I watch his dreams, or how sometimes I just want somebody, anybody – but mostly him – to walk up to me and put his arms around me and hold on tight and keep holding on till it hurts: so real and so painful that I can _feel I’m alive_.

Only I’m not and it’s pointless to even wish for it.

*

Dumbledore told me once that it doesn’t do to dwell on dreams and forget to live. And now I keep hoping that if I spend enough time in Snape’s dreams I would forget. Because I can’t live, not anymore and not like I want to, and it’ll be so much easier to forget it.

His dreams repeat themselves a lot, now that I’m not trying to change them anymore. His and Malfoy’s younger selves lurk in the corner of his mind instead of the corner of his eye, especially before the real nightmares begin. I don’t know what’s worse, watching Snape when they start or seeing him with Malfoy beforehand. I feel like I’m taking another uninvited look into his pensieve, but I can’t stop myself. I should, but now that I’ve crossed the line it’s so hard not to do it again.

The first time it happened I watched Snape sleep, as usual. I could see him stir, felt the change in his breathing. I kept telling myself I’d look in on him just this once, to check in case it was the tunnel again, because a quick check on a nightmare like that wouldn’t be the same thing as spying. So I looked, and it wasn’t the tunnel after all, but somehow I stayed, when I shouldn’t have been watching at all.

It was Diagon Alley, and that arrogant bastard was standing right next to him. Snape seemed awfully young in his Hogwarts uniform, and awfully happy in Malfoy’s company. He was looking for something, peering into a narrow alley beside Slug and Jiggers.

“And you call yourself a Dark Arts expert,” Malfoy drawled. “You can’t even find your way into Knockturn.”

“Just tell me what you did!”

Malfoy laughed. “You can’t bear to leave something unexplained, can you?”

“It has to be a passageway,” Snape muttered under his breath. “What opens it?”

“Nothing. The place just knows the right person. And you aren’t one yet.”

Snape was frustrated. He bit his lip and glared from under all that lank hair. “Show me again.”

“Very well, but this time I won’t be back.”

“I’ll find you!”

“You can _try_,” Malfoy smiled lazily and cast a Disillusionment Charm.

Then he disappeared; and I was pretty sure I knew where to. I’d bet anything he used the passageway to Knockturn, that narrow one that Snape used when he saved us from the house elves, the one that moves from place to place in Diagon Alley.

And Snape was left behind, searching, walking up and down the street, skirting round the passers-by, nervously picking his way like a daddy longlegs spider. His wand was drawn and it looked like he was trying to follow a tracing spell but without much luck, so he stopped every time on the same spot. As time went by the street filled up with more and more people, and no matter where Snape searched, Malfoy never came back for him.

*

The dream left Snape edgy and restless the next day. As he drank his coffee, he still had the same absorbed look in his eyes, as if he was searching for someone or something, and couldn’t work out how to find them again.

I tried to catch his eye. It didn’t quite work.

He really shouldn’t trust me. I’m the most selfish bastard I know. I lied when I said I’d keep my word. What kind of person does that? If he ever finds out I’ve been spying on him in dreams there’ll be hell to pay, but I can’t stay away from them. And maybe I’m a coward, but dreams are the only way I can avoid all that silence in the dark.

*

The second time I looked in on his dreams, I didn’t see the tunnel either. But by then, I’d stopped hiding behind excuses. I just watched, and kicked myself for being weak. Snape was in the Hogwarts dungeons. He was at the door to his Potions classroom; only it couldn’t have been his yet, ‘cause even though he wasn’t in student robes, he still looked too young to teach.

“Thanks, Professor Slughorn,” he called. He had a phial in his hand, and he was smiling: it was faint, but a real smile, like it was his birthday and he’d just got the present he’d been hoping for all year.

“Good _luck_, Severus, my boy,” the genteel voice chuckled behind the closing door.

Snape ducked his head and his hair fell over his face hiding everything but his nose. “That’s exactly what I need,” he whispered, and his eyes shone in the gloom, almost as bright as the ornate phial. “Luck: the simplest and most expensive of commodities.”

He drank the potion and then he grabbed something small hanging on a ribbon around his neck and squeezed it tight. Portkey, I realised, as the dream pulled me through as well, into a spinning, dizzying, broomstick stunt of a ride that dropped us both in a the middle of a familiar hedge maze. I could smell roses everywhere. Snape hopped over the hedges with a newfound lightness to his step and strode down the gravel path to the Manor.

Whatever he drank worked like a love potion, only the Snape I know hates love potions. Was that why he hates them? ‘Cause he used one on himself once? Only aren’t you supposed to make someone else drink it instead? Whatever it was, I hated it, just because it worked and I had to see that blond tosser swoop in like a predator. As soon as Snape walked through the door he was pressed against it. I wanted Snape to push Malfoy away, show that prick that he didn’t need him, but he didn’t… He enjoyed it. He looked like he was hurt and content all at once and there was a half-smile, half-grimace on his lips. He held onto Malfoy like he was everything Snape ever wanted. I hated watching it but I stayed and watched the entire kiss. Perhaps the Dursleys were right: I’m a freak.

Sometimes it felt like I was watching my own pensieve memory repeating over and over and I swear that I knew every time Malfoy made him gasp. That nip on his throat, the fingers clenching in his hair, and finally, the deep kiss that made him hold on helplessly to that bastard’s neck.

It took an abrupt knock on the door to prise Malfoy off. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet,” he whispered, pulling back and rearranging his rumpled clothing back to immaculate perfection. Git! He opened the door to the Manor and welcomed Tom Riddle in, but Riddle walked past him as if he didn’t exist, his eyes flickering red as they focused only on Snape. Snape stepped back warily and looked as if he wanted to Disapparate on the spot, but his gaze locked with Riddle’s, just for a second, and in that second Snape’s eyes went wide with shock. He blinked and looked down, hair falling over his face, as if hiding from the attention. But Riddle kept staring at him, like a snake watching a rat. He had an intrigued expression, the same look Malfoy had when he opened the door to Snape just a few minutes before. “Lucius,” he hissed, without shifting that stare from Snape for a moment, “Introduce us.”

Then I worked out what that potion did. It gained attention. It worked on Malfoy – he barely remembered to shut the door before he pounced – but I bet Snape never expected another visitor that day.

And if it took all my strength to stay still when I watched him with Malfoy, it was even harder to stop myself from jumping right between Snape and that evil fucker, or yelling at Snape to get away from there and hide till whatever he drank wore off... But I couldn’t! It was just a dream and it happened before I was born, too long ago to be changed, even if we all had our magic back. I knew that for sure, and what I saw next only confirmed it...

Snape seemed tired in the next dream, and maybe that was why he looked so much older in it than the last one. This time he was in that narrow passage, the back way into Knockturn Alley. And he was clutching his forearm, like I’ve often seen him do for a moment, only that time he didn’t let go: his fingers dug deeper into his arm like it was burning. He staggered to the corner, looking around wildly, and collapsed against the brick of the alley wall.

That was where Malfoy found him. He pulled up Severus’ sleeve, baring the Mark: fresh, swollen and red. “It gets better,” Lucius said. “Give it a few days.”

“Better?” Snape looked up and his eyes were so black in his pale, big-nosed face. “How _can_ it?”

“You’re right,” Malfoy answered after a long pause. “It doesn’t.”

“Then why the hell did you do it?”

“Why?” Lucius snorted. “Why should I _not_ support the most powerful wizard of our time?”

Snape shook his head. “I know exactly why _you_ took the Mark. I just don’t know why you asked _me_ to do the same.”

Malfoy didn’t say anything at all to that. Neither did Snape.

I’ve been thinking a lot about that last dream. I used to believe the worst way to hurt someone is with words. But it’s not. You can hurt someone just as much by being silent. Screaming matches are no worse than the things people don’t say to each other. Like now, when I don’t mention I’ve seen Snape’s nightmares, and he doesn’t mention other things: everything, really. And the silence fills the air worse than the darkness hour after hour as I sit by his bed: it builds up and gets thicker, till it’s like a wall I can’t walk through to reach him ever again. And that hurts.

*

Harry’s been silent lately. When I ask him to stay behind as I leave the flat, I can tell the request shocks him, but even then he doesn’t say much.

“It’s just a simple errand.” I refuse to feel guilty. Instead I try to sound upbeat. “I trust you’ll be all right for the next two hours.”

“What kind of errand?” he asks warily. He is beginning to suspect something.

“I’ll explain when I get back.” Not everything, of course. There are no right words to explain everything to him. Perhaps, the bothersome voice in my head whispers, my heart will fail once I’m away from home and I won’t have to explain anything at all. I refuse to acknowledge the possibility.

*

The glass-sheathed tower at 30 St. Mary Axe is impossible to miss. Even if I didn’t know the address one can see the building itself from afar. The ‘Erotic Gherkin’ is an ironically apt name for it, if upthrust cucumbers had snakeskin and housed a hive of Muggles with a fondness for heights and the London skyline. Harry might enjoy it if he were here; it’s different enough to gain his attention.

I confront the receptionists and the lift and a few minutes later reach the thirty-second floor. The waiting room is as empty as the secretary’s desk. The phone, disconnected, with its cord wrapped carefully around the base, is placed in the corner next to a dried up plant. The nametag – Pansy P. in plain letters – is the only thing that still remains on the bare surface. The name is familiar yet I barely recall the hard-faced, methodical girl from Draco’s year now that she isn’t present. The door to the main office is unlocked, so I walk through it.

The slender man shuffling stacks of papers behind the flat, dark screen is just the same as I remember him. He blends into his clothes: sharp, dark-grey eyes the same colour as his expensive suit, his slicked-back hair the exact pale shade of his shirt collar. He is surprised to see me enter, but I can only tell that because I know his mannerisms, resembling his father’s too closely for comfort.

Behind him, the London skyline spreads as wide as the Thames, sliced apart by its bridges and the triangular frame of the window.

Draco hides his surprise well by searching through the papers on his desk in pre-arranged piles. He pulls one out, making a show of flipping through the pages and adding up the numbers. “Severus,” he says, not looking up. “Just the man I wanted to see. Perhaps you can finally explain to me how one can survive on £500 a month.”

We’ve been through this before. In fact, I’ve heard this question from him in one form or another so many times, it’s almost become a running joke. “By finding other means of support, rather than charity.”

“It’s not charity!” There it is, that cultured, refined, perfected Malfoy scowl. “My father…”

“What Lucius wanted and what he did were two entirely different things.”

“Not with you.”

“Draco,” I approach the desk. “You are not responsible for my well-being. I can take care of myself.”

“Fine.” His face hardens. “You want to convince me you’re working, go ahead. I’m willing to pretend that your facade of an editing job pays more than my estimate. What I don’t understand is how a man who has a small fortune at his disposal can’t even spend the interest it generates.”

“Easily. It’s not mine to spend.”

“Just look at yourself!” he cries; the papers slide across the desk, sharp-edged and heavy. “Stubborn bastard, jump off a bridge if you must, just don’t starve to death!”

His outburst makes me conscious of the way I must look to him, tired and gaunt. I’ve stopped noticing certain things in the mirror long ago, but Draco pays more attention to appearance than I; nothing gets past those sharp eyes of his, from one rare visit to the next. I suppose the change in me worries him because unlike most other people in his life, I do not bend according to his wishes. And, while I appreciate the concern, this time he’s gone too far. “That’s enough. Stop it, or next month you’ll find deposits instead of withdrawals on those bank balances of yours, and they’ll continue until the last brass farthing’s repaid.”

That gets his attention. His shoulders sag and he looks away for the first time. He turns from the desk and rubs the bridge of his aristocratic nose, as if warding off a headache. “Fine. I knew better,” he gives in. “I’m sorry. It’s just… it’s been a bad week.”

Now that he isn’t looking me in the eye and isn’t hiding behind his papers, I notice the shadows beneath his pale eyelashes, the less-than-absolutely-immaculate state of his grooming. I remember the time when this man I depend on, deny it as I might, used to look to me for guidance. “What’s wrong?”

For a moment he is not a chameleon, easily fitting in among people years older than him because it makes him appear more trustworthy to them, but a young boy asking whether he can just bypass the Sorting and move into the Slytherin dorm two months before the start of term. “Pansy left,” he says simply.

I remember the empty secretary desk in the other room. “Did she find a more advantageous position?”

He shrugs, his arms crossed tensely over his chest, as if he’s physically cold. “Maybe. I don’t know. She left a note. Said she didn’t want to get in the way.” He pauses to look through the wide window at the London skyline.

Besides a prestigious degree that certainly wasn’t earned, there are two other framed pictures on the pale, bare walls of Draco’s sunlit office. One is a family photograph: a man, a woman, and an infant, the frozen continuation of so many portraits I remember on the walls of Malfoy Manor. Underneath it is a childlike scribble of crayons and paint, fresh and unprecedented. Both of them look more genuine than the degree ever could.

There is no image of the snub-nosed, dark-haired girl who used to sit behind the desk in the other room. There never was: her presence outside was expected and taken for granted. I nod carefully and examine the calm gaze of the woman in the picture. “Will your wife…”

“No, Anna wouldn’t do anything.” While he can’t be anything other than his parents’ son, his wry chuckle sounds oddly like my own. “Whiskey, cigarettes… and the secretary. She prefers to keep an eye on my weaknesses rather than destroying them.”

His eyes search for something in the distant structures on the other side of the river. “Sometimes Anna reminds me so much of Mother,” he mentions. “She’s frightening… for a Muggle, that is.” After this confession he is quiet for a long time. I let him have his moment of contemplation in silence.

“Sir?” I haven’t heard him call me that in years.

“Yes?”

“Mother always treated you the same way, didn’t she?” He looks up, and Lucius’ eyes on Narcissa’s delicate features still stun me with their impact. “As Father’s weakness.”

His gaze searches my face for something he obviously hopes to find in my reaction. Reassurance perhaps that it isn’t so. But I owe him better than lies. “Your father wasn’t weak.” There is no sense in hiding any of it from Draco, not any more, so I admit softly “If anything, he was my weakness; I was never his.”

“Was that why you left?” I know the precise day he must be thinking of, even though I didn’t actually leave then. At best I began leaving that day, one foot out the heavy front door of the Manor, though I don’t think I ever truly finished walking away from Lucius. Not until he Portkeyed me out of his life; right before he ended it.

“Draco, I did not…”

“Yes you did!” he interrupts. “It’s hard to forget a thing like that. You used to come and see us all the time, and then you just stopped. Disappeared. I didn’t see you again till Hogwarts.”

I recall a desperate owl from a boy wanting to come to Hogwarts a year early. “I didn’t want to be in the way, Draco.” It’s not until I’ve spoken that I realise my choice of words has echoed Miss Parkinson’s after all.

“Whose way?” he cries. “Mother’s?”

I look at the photograph again: Draco’s attention is all on the infant his wife is holding in her arms. Another photograph, smaller and more current, sits on his desk: Draco alone is holding up his son. They are both smiling. The boy is about four.

I’m surprised Pansy lasted this long. One can’t compete with a child. It’s a hard lesson to learn but a necessary one. “No, yours.” I murmur. “You deserved a family.”

“You _are_ my family!” he exclaims. “I always thought of you as part of it. I liked you! I would’ve liked to see you more, before Hogwarts. And now that I mention it, I still would.”

I look at him in surprise, wondering what he expects of me. Godfather or not, I never really stood _in loco parentis_. I did much better as a teacher; at least Draco had enough skill in Potions that it wasn’t as onerous to teach him as most. Perhaps he wants my company these days, simply because his parents are gone and I remind him of the time they were still alive. In either case, it seems that my condition will soon cause disappointment to yet another of my former students. I cannot be the person Draco expects me to be. Yet, as an apology, or perhaps because it’s the last time I’ll see him, I try nonetheless. “Have you eaten yet?”

He blinks at the clock in the corner; it’s about two. “What? No. I had a case to look over.” His cuffs show his wrists – all skin and bone – as he reaches for a stack of papers and manila folders.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “You’re a fine one to accuse _me_ of starving myself to death. Why not leave it be? Just for a while.”

It’s not until he smiles at me that I’m sure it was the right thing to ask.

*

We go for lunch. An expensive place at the very top of the building beneath the domed roof, nearly empty of building tenants at two in the afternoon. It makes me feel more trapped than ever: an insect under a luminous glass sphere. There’s nowhere to hide from the sky and the sunlight In the lounge bar, a young man holds a mobile phone to his ear with his shoulder as he devours a sandwich. “No, Mum,” he mumbles into the phone, “Not this weekend. End of the month perhaps?” I turn away from him in favour of the menu. The place offers cocktails as well as food. Draco orders both, in abundance. He insists on paying. That seems to satisfy him so I allow it, just this once. I wouldn’t be able to afford this place anyway.

He is happy enough at this outing, enough to stop me from wondering frantically about what a parental figure is expected to do in cases like this. A reassuring clap on the shoulder? A stern glare and a suitable warning to take care of himself?

The young man at the bar protests as the mobile buzzes into his ear, “I’ve got work, commitments! I can’t just snap my fingers and _magic_ myself there and back overnight! You tell Dad…”

Draco gives him a mildly amused, mildly irritated glance. “Magic never resolved family quarrels. Neither did Apparation.” He sighs and shakes his head. “No use talking about magic now, of course.” He gives a shrug and drains his glass. “Though, listen to this, you’ll never believe it...” He pauses for maximum effect before delivering the punchline, “...Magic is _supposedly_ back!”

I raise my eyebrow at that. _Well, well. News does travel fast._ “Do tell,” I manage.

“Nothing _to_ tell,” he replies. “Daft Muggleborns! They’re searching for magical children. Next week they’ll be resurrecting Potter!”

Resurrect Harry? Ah, if only that were at all possible, I would’ve done so already. I hold back a sarcastic chuckle and imagine myself sharing the story of Harry invading my flat, just to see Draco’s face grow paler than his collar. “It’s true,” I tell him instead.

“What?” He looks up, blinking.

“It’s not just the Muggleborns. A few weeks ago, I saw Ginny Weasley cast a spell, powered by her foetus’ magical energy.”

His eyes narrow. “Are you certain it _was_ a spell?”

“Absolutely.”

Draco doesn’t say anything. The man in the corner appears properly chastened and finally gives in with a feeble “Fine, I’ll catch the next train.” He snaps his mobile closed, nearly dropping it in his drink.

Draco is unusually silent for the rest of lunch. When he pays the bill, I notice that his wallet has another picture of his son.

We return to his office, and the three framed images that can almost summarise his present life: Draco Malfoy, a Muggle among Muggles. He motions toward the third frame: cheerful scribbles of green and yellow underneath the photograph. “Luc drew that,” he informs me with pride. “Give him paints and he’ll occupy himself for hours.”

“I see,” I nod at the abstract splash of green, as vivid as if someone threw a jar of floo powder into flames. “It brightens your office.”

He smiles proudly, as Lucius would have, if the painting were an eighteenth century original worth a small fortune. But Draco sobers up quickly, and gets right to the point, finally voicing the worry that I can tell has prevented him from enjoying his meal, though not in the way I expected. “Is it different for half-bloods?”

I blink. “Is what different?”

“Do they not show magic as early as pureblood children?”

“Half-blood, Muggleborn, it doesn’t matter. The first signs of magic make themselves known in early childhood for everyone.”

“If there was any magic in him, I would’ve noticed it by now? Right?” he asks, and waits, expecting me to produce a logical counterargument, wanting me to prove his fears are baseless. But I can’t.

“Most likely.” It’s hard not to notice a young child’s bouts of accidental magic. There are always exceptions, of course, but Draco shouldn’t rely on false hopes. “How old is the boy?”

“He’ll be five soon.” When Draco looks up, his expression is stubborn and proud and not at all excited despite all his attempts. “You should come and see him, Severus. He’s memorised the Malfoy bloodline up to the seventh generation, and he tells _me_ stories about Father. And already he paints better than some crooks in the galleries down the street. The rest doesn’t matter.” he says with a determined look and it sounds as though he’s trying to convince himself, more than me. “I don’t care if he starts levitating things tomorrow or won’t cast a single spell in his life, my son is perfect and no one will convince me otherwise.”

It’s only then, as Draco talks about his son, that I realise how much he’s changed over the years. How much he’s not his father. Lucius would’ve been absolutely livid at the very idea of having a squib for a son. Yet in a different place and time Draco has managed to deal with that – and so many other disasters – better than Lucius ever could.

“Your father would’ve been proud of you,” I murmur before I have a chance to change my mind. _I know I’m proud of him, and I’m certain Lucius would have been, if only for slightly different reasons._

His eyes widen, but then his lips twist sarcastically. “Right! I would’ve been disowned the moment I married a Muggle.”

“Why did you?” Out of everyone who survived the ruin of our world, Draco seemed the least likely to associate with Muggles, yet here he is, adjusting and getting by better than any of the others might’ve hoped to. I have my suspicions why, yet I’ve never heard his version of the story. Why a Muggle?

He shrugs. “Anna’s family has influence, money, and this.” He motions around the office. “It was the best match for me, given the circumstances.”

It’s just as I expected. The famous Malfoy ambition, not only to survive but to have the best life possible, won over. “You see,” I tell him. “Long ago, your father did the same thing. He can’t fault you for following in his footsteps.”

I take a thin, sealed envelope out of my pocket and slide it over the desk. Perhaps it won’t be as difficult as I thought to get him to accept it.

He picks it up and examines it. “What’s this?”

“My will. In case of emergencies.”

He snorts. “Paranoid! You’ll outlive us all. And I know what you’re doing; I don’t need your money. Keep it!” His hands grip the envelope, about to tear it in two.

My heart skips a beat. “It’s for Luc,” I say swiftly, “Perhaps someday he’ll use it.”

A variety of expressions flash across his face but in the end he sets the envelope aside. “All right,” he nods. “But meanwhile, spend some of it yourself. Luc won’t need it for a long time.”

I give him a token agreement, though we both know I won’t really follow his advice. Only as I leave does Draco say something that sticks in my mind for a long time. “I think you’re wrong,” he says levelly. “About not being Father’s weakness.”

I pause and look back.

“You were; more than you know,” he says. “When I was home for the hols, every time I mentioned you to him he’d get this look in his eyes – possessive as hell – like he was jealous that I got to see you more often than he could.”

While I smile at that image of Lucius – it must’ve frustrated him so – at the same time, I assure myself that it still means nothing. Meant nothing. It still doesn’t change the fact that Lucius is gone. Though maybe… perhaps…

_Will I see him again when I die?_ A thought worthy of Harry’s senseless reasoning appears unbidden, and my untrustworthy heart skips a beat: whether in fear or anticipation, I cannot tell. I push the thought to the very back of my mind and flee from it like a fugitive.

“Just take care of yourself, all right?” Draco asks as I step through the door. “Till I see you again: probably when I’m old, though not at all grey and finally a billionaire.”

I nod. _I’ll do my best, but it won’t be good enough._

“And how can you live without a telephone!” he calls out from his office door as I pass by Pansy’s empty desk. “You’re nearly impossible to contact.”

I smile. Draco isn’t even aware how closely he’s channelling Miss Granger. “Send me a letter,” I tell him. “I trust you haven’t forgotten how to write.”

*

After Draco, there’s only one person left to visit.

I leave the train at Tottenham Court Road, and walk along the station, past the wall mosaics, searching for the one that looked a bit like a phoenix. Whenever I met with Dumbledore, somehow it always clarified my perspective on things, and right now I don’t know what else to do. I know better than to expect advice or guidance from him, but perhaps a moment in silence in his company is all I need. Even though I still can’t help but wish to hear “I know you, don’t I? Severus?” spoken in that familiar quavering voice, or perhaps to see a spark of recognition from eyes once as clear and mischievous as Harry’s.

When I finally find the mosaic, I see the shabby shape of a woman leaning against the wall alone: ‘Minerva’. There are no marbles next to her and no unfolded newspapers on the floor. She’s rocking back and forth, her metal arm clinking against the wall, glancing at the trains but not really watching them go.

When I finally gather the courage to ask her, she only stares at me blankly, and shakes her head in confusion.

Just like that, Albus is gone, as if he was never here. Now I can’t help wondering if he was real, or if the one-sided conversations I’ve had with him over the years were just the hallucinations of a loneliness-addled mind.

Now, there is only silence. I’ve learned to rely on silence and converse with it over the years. It’s as good a listener as any: the one thing I can trust to wait for me to return to it, over and over again. It’s as familiar as the walk along Camden High Street, and the pub filling the wedge between it and Kentish Town Road. Even The World’s End is unusually silent today.

That silence follows me out the pub’s door, through the empty streets and alleys I choose to get home, up the stairs and into the flat, for once unbroken by Harry’s voice. It’s as if he isn’t even here. As if he was never here at all. As if I dreamed him, along with Albus. At that thought, the silence turns deafening and shrill at the same time, like the sound of a scream, turned to a liquid gurgle in the throat of a bottle.

*

Even if he wasn’t real, Albus was right to warn me off spirits. Spirits – both the ones in a bottle and the ones haunting the living – make you remember strange things. Things that are better off forgotten, like a narrow kitchen and my father, drunk, and singing in a voice like a boozy lion’s roar, _In the Tower of London, large as life, the ghost of Ann Boleyn walks, they declare…._

As I climb the familiar staircase, I realise that the song reminds me of Harry. That’s what he must’ve done for years: walked the towers and staircases of Hogwarts all alone, while I walked my own gauntlet of life among Muggles. Damn his curiosity! Why does he have to question everything? Why can’t he make it easier for me to lie to him? It’s not as if I want to, or as if I’ve got any other choice.

When I was too young to know whether I’d go to Hogwarts or a Muggle school like my father, he used to howl out that song after he staggered home from the pub. A poor mechanic in a rundown house and a breaking-down household in Spinner’s End would bellow a song about a solitary ghost haunting her murderers, a cold tower, and its ignorant modern guards; and now thirty years later I’ve found out for myself what it feels like to be haunted. It hurts to realise that no matter how hard I’ve tried, I’ve turned into my father after all: a broken, useless man hiding from my sorrows in a bottle. I wonder if Dad was ever haunted by anything himself, or if he just liked the irony of royalty falling to a lower fate than his own.

_With her head tucked underneath her arm, she walks the Bloody Tower…_

Merlin save us all from stubborn ghosts, whether their heads are in place or not. My laugh comes, harsh and sudden, echoing down the stairs. What else can I do but laugh? In the teeth of despair, it’s better to laugh, or to sing, even silly melodrama tunes like that, than to break down and cry.

Isn’t it?

Harry’s there after all. Is this sudden pang in my chest relief, or the beginning of the end? He’s waiting for me, outside my door, sitting in the corner next to it. His head is, of course, properly attached to his neck but everything else is oddly fitting the situation.

He stares at me, gaping in disbelief. I fight the urge to ask him whether _my_ head’s still attached properly: all of a sudden it’s started to pound badly enough that I might have put it through a windshield somewhere back there, as I was wandering the streets like a lost soul.

“Where have you been?” he cries, glaring as if he’s planning to incinerate me on the spot.

I don’t owe him an explanation. Or do I? I suppose I promised one. “To see a friend.”

“Which one?” his voice hitches. “Do I know them?”

No sense in hiding really. If he doesn’t want to hear the answer, he shouldn’t ask the question. “Draco.”

His eyes go wide. “Malfoy? _He_ was your bloody errand?”

“Don’t sound so surprised. I told you, I went to see a friend.”

“Some _friend_!” He looks me up and down. “What’d he do to you?”

“Nothing. You’re talking rubbish.”

“Maybe if you’d told me you were going to see that pasty little ferret in the first place instead of running off like a coward…”

“Don’t call me that!”

“Fine!” he yells and turns away, collapsing into a small, huddled shape on the floor.

I put my key in and turn. The door stays locked. I twist it again. The key only turns so far. Coincidence? I don’t think so. Harry’s face is far too focused to be innocent. Just a small twist of the internal mechanism should be enough to… the bastard’s controlling the lock!

“Let me in.”

Slowly he raises his head, resting it against the wall. “No!”

_Preposterous!_ “This is my house.”

He ignores me completely. “You were gone for hours. Not two hours, at least five!” he glares up at me. “You never break your promises. I thought you’d been in an accident. I thought of going to look for you only I didn’t know where to look and I was afraid you’d show up just after I left.”

I let go of the key in shock. Harry’s energy! How the _hell_ could I have forgotten that? I didn’t keep track of time at all, and the last time I left him alone in my flat, he was barely visible when I came back!

“Don’t bloodywell start. Just don’t.”

I wasn’t going to apologise. Was I? Instead I take a step closer to him. He probably needs proximity now more than ever.

Harry turns his head away and curls in on himself, arms over his knees, as if shielding himself from my energy, even though the shape of his fingers and his hair dulls and wavers.

Stubborn sod.

I think of the old chants used to summon ghosts, to give power to them, as I slide down on the floor next to him. I can’t remember a single chant, but perhaps anything will do: anything to create the right atmosphere, to relax him, to stop him from fighting the energy flow. So I begin humming instead. Not a chant. An old familiar song. I can’t carry a tune and I’ve forgotten most of the words. When my father sang it was loud and melodramatic with a long drawn out chorus, but I can’t fill my lungs enough to imitate him well, so the words come out in choppy, panting bursts. “Along th’ draughty corridors, f’r miles’n’miles, she goes; She often catches cold, poor thing, et’s cold there, when et blows; An’ et’s awf’lly awkward, f’r th’ Queen, t’ave t’blow ‘er nose; Wi’ ‘er ‘ead toocked, oonderneath ‘er aarm.”

It certainly isn’t much, especially with Dad’s tyke accent surfacing in my voice as it hasn’t done since I were a lad, but at least it fills the silence.

Harry gapes at me. For a second I even think it’s worked: he’s found something funny in the situation, he’s going to reach out and accept what he needs from me. But he doesn’t. His face turns harsh. “You’re drunk!” he finally snaps ever-so-observantly. “Just perfect!” He jolts to his feet and storms off through the door.

When I try to follow him, I almost bash my nose into it, forgetting it’s not unlocked or opened yet. Then I resume my struggle with the key.

*

Drunken sod. I watch him stumble in the dark through the hallway and into his bedroom. I’ve seen him walk that path too many times to count, but never like this: I hate the way the drink has made him clumsy. He flops down onto the bed with a creak and groan of springs. With a sigh he lets his head fall back onto the pillow. Wait, did he say something?

“Harry.”

He did. The tosser’s sorry now, is he? About time, too! Well, I should let him be sorry. He deserves it.

“I know you’re here.”

Oh, yeah? Doesn’t mean I’ll appear on command. He can’t expect me to be at his beck and call. Things don’t work that way.

“Wish you’d show yourself.” His voice is low, tentative. His eyes are searching the room. Well, I’ve got things I wish for too, loads of them. And just ‘cause I wish, it doesn’t mean any of them’ll ever come true.

“You’re not going to answer, are you?”

Damn right. Finally he’s starting to get it. I trusted him. I really trusted him to be all right, to make his life better. I thought he was doing so well and then he had to go and make a right balls-up of it all, just when I started to believe in him. Lying prick. He can bloody well be sorry now. Serves him right. Serves _me_ right for believing in him.

He starts again, soft and hesitant. “There was a young man who wanted something he could never have…”

I don’t need a bedtime story to make it all better! As if that’s going to help anything!

“He thought that potions could solve all of his troubles. If he could bottle fame and brew glory by just following the correct procedure, why couldn’t a potion change his rotten luck? So he studied hard for seven years, and one day he got a hold of a single phial of the most perfect luck, luck that would last a day from sunrise to sunset. He thought one lucky day would be all he needed to turn his life around.”

I remember reading something about luck potion back in seventh year, when I thought I could impress Snape into not failing me. Felix something or other.

“He drank Felix Felicis, expecting that everything would go his way,” Snape’s voice echoes my thoughts. “That finally he’d impress everyone he met, be recognised for his achievements, be appreciated for once instead of ignored. And he was, to some extent. The potion did everything he expected of it, and more. But that extra luck didn’t prevent him from impressing exactly the wrong person.”

That dream at Malfoy Manor, with Snape, Malfoy, and Voldemort at the door. Is that what he means?

“It didn’t prevent him for making one terrible mistake after the other. Mistakes he realised only too late. He’d spent years wanting to be more than someone’s hanger-on, but instead he learned that no matter how hard he tried, his life wasn’t going to turn out as he’d wanted, and all he could share with that someone was a mutual mistake.”

When he speaks this softly it always makes me listen. Even if I don’t want to, even if I’m trying my best to ignore him. I learned that long ago, back when he was still teaching. He always makes me listen, and now that I think of it, it must be Malfoy he’s talking about, or partly about Malfoy, but mostly about himself: that gangly boy I’ve seen in his dreams and the man that boy became.

“The man grew old, still wanting. He made mistakes and then he made sacrifices. He learned to survive at all costs.”

And Snape did survive, in all of his nightmares I wasn’t supposed to see but saw anyway. All those horrible things he’s lived through, and he still came back snarling and glaring. And now that there aren’t any bad things left, suddenly he’s giving up? How can he give up now, when I’m here? He can’t do that!

“Then I met you, and at last I realised that I’d stopped wanting the same dream I’d wanted all my life,” he whispers and I have to creep closer just to understand his words. “Now, I can’t help but want a new one instead. You changed my luck, Harry. God, how I _wish_ I could’ve known you when I was still young.”

He stares and stares into the dark and I know he can’t possibly see me, but I still can’t help wondering if he does, all the same.

Finally he folds back the covers and slides underneath them without even changing into his ratty nightshirt like he usually does. And even then in the dark I can feel his eyes on me, blindly searching the empty room.

“I still want that,” he breathes, and it’s the last thing he says tonight. But instead of words, his hand reaches out into the dark. It would almost go through me if I didn’t step back in time.

*

He fell asleep long ago. His face is still and calm with that great big nose sticking out, his bony chest is moving under the thin blanket as he breathes in and out, and his outstretched hand is still dangling over the side of the bed. It’s absolutely still, just like the books on his shelves or the candlesticks left on the floorboards, so still that if I reach out I would probably be able to touch him and feel it – just another part of his flat: the walls, the doorways, and Severus Snape.

_I still want that._ That’s what he said, and I can’t get it out of my mind. Damn him! Damn the greasy bastard for giving me that bloody frustrating near-invitation to his bed. Or to his dreams, more likely. Either way, it’s an offer, even I can see that! He wants me in his dreams, and it only took a bottle of booze and a dirty great row for him to admit it. He wants me.

So how can I refuse this? He’ll sober up in the morning and never ask me again. I can’t turn down an offer like this: it’s everything I want. It’s like a birthday present when I wasn’t expecting a birthday at all. It’s like magic returning or Hogwarts reopening or a chance to live my life like a normal person again. Just when I think something like this will never happen, it does and he said it and his hand is still here reaching out in the dark.

I hate him for that, for another _almost_-an-offer.

After that last dream I used to think I’d do absolutely anything to have him say ‘yes’, for just one chance to find him in dreams and show him everything: how sorry I am that I can’t touch him and just how much I _need_ to touch him. And then he wouldn’t care if it was only dreams, I’d make it good. I’d make him love it. I’d make him want it just as much as I do.

But that’d be a lie. ‘Cause it wouldn’t be all right. Not now, not this way. ‘Cause when the dream was over, I’d still have to face him in the morning and explain what I did to him.

It’s bloody ironic, the only time he’s weak enough to say ‘yes’ to me, I can’t act on it, and I hate it that I can’t. ‘Cause I’ve seen enough of his dreams and found enough excuses to sneak into them. And if I do it again tonight, what am I going to do tomorrow when he isn’t drunk anymore, and says that he didn’t mean it and I thought completely wrong? I’ve made enough mistakes. And this’d be one very wrong, very bad mistake to make. If I go now, I’ll lose all respect for myself. I offered everything I could offer him once. And if he ever says yes, I want him to know exactly what he’s agreeing to. That’s the right thing to do. It all comes down to that, and I hate it.

The night has just begun and it’ll be long enough to decide and change my mind a thousand times over. As I sit here and watch him sleep I know that most likely I will change it, ‘cause I’m not that strong. I’m not. I’ll give in the same way I always give in, and move from the kitchen into the hallway and through the doorway into his room at night. Whether the journey takes a whole hour or half the night it always ends at his bed. But at least I can try. That’s what I’m good at after all: trying and failing over and over.

I still wonder what he sees in his dreams when I’m not in them. Perhaps I shouldn’t; that’s what got me into this mess in the first place.

*

The darkness feels warm and solid, like him. In it, Harry wraps around me, breath hot and limbs heavy. I close my eyes against the unfocused green and simply breathe in, as the images of him flood my mind.

“Said I’d do something drastic.” His hand glides between us, his touch heavy and slow. Stops.

I nudge it further down.

“Oh,” he exhales. Even his hair smells like the sky, the crisp, fresh smell of heights, as if he’d just swooped down on a broom with it all windblown and tangled. Ever the Seeker.

I relax my hold on his wrist. “All right?” Why do I feel as though I am the one with the Snitch in my hands, an elusive, shining victory still trembling and hot from hours in the sun? I can only hold onto him, still unable to believe the catch, unable to let go for even a second.

“Yeah, perfect,” he sighs against my shoulder.

“Brat.” _Foolish, irrational, impossible brat._ “Finish what you started.”

“Wanted to for ages,” he murmurs his agreement. And his mouth – warm, gentle – his scent, his roaming hands, the tantalising contact of skin-on-skin strips me of the last shred of coherency. The movement of his hand, the pressure of his body against mine is suddenly too much to bear. “Wanted _you_.”

A gasp. Mine? His? I don’t know. All I know is that his hands are determined, and that his stubborn mouth slides lower down my neck, across the Apparition scar on my shoulder, crossing it like another discarded boundary between us, and moving on: tasting my sweat (until I too taste salt from the inside of my bitten cheek); exhaling shallow breaths against my skin (until I cannot breathe at all). With every touch, every sigh he is determined to drive me completely out of my mind, push the limits of ‘drastic’ with his spontaneous kisses and that astoundingly slow descent down the length of my body, make me forget everything but his mouth: so close it should be warm, but it only sends shivers down my skin, he’ll make me…

“What do you like? Tell me.”

_You. This. More… just do **something**!_ “Harry… Yes.”

“Snape?”

I look up. Harry’s in the doorway, and at first my mind is blank with surprise that he’s over there and fully dressed and not _here with me_. Then I notice his eyes, wide and worried, and his hair, tangled but not windblown. His transparent form glows slightly in the darkness of my room.

“What is it?” he asks.

The reality sinks in soon enough – just a dream – along with the all-too-real shock of awakening. Insanity must feel like this.

Did Harry hear me? Did he _create_ this dream too?

He couldn’t have. He didn’t. His face was far too calm, which was more than I could say for myself. He wouldn’t dare enter my dreams uninvited, not after I asked him not to, but… _I’ve watched you sleep for hours._ That’s what he said to me back in Diagon Alley; and knowing him, he does watch me sleep, every night. Sometimes I’ve wondered what he sees that keeps his focus for so long. It surprised me, back then. When I still thought that I had all the time in the world, I could still afford pleasant surprises.

“Did you dream of Remus again?”

Again? Oh. The tunnel. He meant the tunnel. The nightmare. “Lupin wouldn't have lost me a moment's sleep. His 'monthly indisposition' is something else."

“That’s what I meant!” he stammers out. “Though you haven’t dreamt about the tunnel for a while. I… I saw your dreams.”

My heart jumps. “WHAT?”

“I spied on you. I’m sorry! But your nightmares are worse.”

“Which ones did you see?” I ask, surprised I can still keep my voice level through it all.

“A few. You and Malfoy. Do you remember?”

Unfortunately. “Don’t trouble yourself about them.” I say it far too quickly, and still I'm not fast enough.

He steps back through the doorway. “I’m sorry. I said that already. I’m just... Look, I’m worried, and I really didn’t mean to watch at first but that b…”

“That’s quite enough!” I override him, loudly, trying to get him to stop.

I really don’t expect it to work, but he does fall silent. Guilt is obvious on his face as he disappears through the wall before I can stop him.

In a way, it’s a relief, but hiding never works, so I too head for the kitchen, caught between anticipation and dread at the prospect of facing him once more.

*

My kitchen. Neutral territory, middle ground. I drink my coffee in silence. He is silent too, savouring the smell of my toast as it cools rapidly on a plate. He doesn’t act awkward, and I’ll be damned if I will.

We can only get so far without words. Finally, I put the empty mug away. “I’m not angry,” I tell him levelly. “And you shouldn’t worry about me. Everyone has nightmares. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? It’s not _nothing_,” he cries. “Nightmares and silence and you were drunk yesterday. Sounds familiar? It does to me. What’s next? M’I gonna be banished to the loo next time I speak up?”

I take a deep breath. How badly can I spoil things in one night? “I apologise, for yesterday.”

“It’s fine. Just fine!” He shrugs with a cold glare. “S’not as though I can stop you from going out and getting plastered if you want to.”

“It’s not _fine_.”

“No, it’s bloody not.” he snaps. “But I can’t fix it now.”

“Do you even _want_ to fix it?” The words hang in the air between us, heavy with released and dissolving anger. Until Harry runs his fingers through his hair awkwardly and looks up at me, calmer than before.

“What kind of question is that? ‘Course I do.”

“Then perhaps breaking one of _your_ promises while expecting me to keep mine isn’t the way to go about it.” His wince at my words brings me a pang of guilt from my own long-forgotten conscience. Such a hypocrite. What about my own promise to myself to take care of Harry? The tacit vow I made when I allowed him to stay here. I’ll never be able to keep that promise.

“I’m sorry ‘bout the dreams. I am!” he cries. “I just wanted to help! Look, I don’t have to see them, I know that now. I can just wake you up from them, like this morning.”

“All right,” I sigh and gather all of my control to leave it at that. What good would it do to tell him now that it wasn’t a nightmare? Is it normal to be concerned, not with the invasion of my privacy, but with the fact that today’s supposed nightmare had Harry truly worried about me? Perhaps I’m concerned because I can still fix this, at least: one tiny, inconsequential thing in face of the bigger, irreparable problems.

“What? _All right_?” His eyes widen. “That’s it?”

“Yes. I… have something to confess.” I pause. I don’t have to confess anything.

He frowns. “Well, go on.”

Only I do. I lift my head and look him in the eye. “You shouldn’t worry, because I didn’t have a nightmare today, nor did it have Lucius in it.”

He stares, blinks in confusion. “Then why’d you…”

I fight the urge to drop my gaze.

“Oh,” he murmurs.

I can feel the unruly blush spread across my face, just when I thought I’d got it under control. Harry stares at me and then a slow smile spreads, signalling that he’s jumped to the right conclusion, making me wish I were completely invisible.

“I’ve never seen you turn that colour before,” Harry snorts, looking awfully smug. “Your nose’s still sort of white,” he adds matter-of-factly, “but the rest of your face is red,” and I can still almost feel that slow, teasing touch, the enthusiastic attack, can almost smell his sun-warmed hair.

“Stop it.” _This is insane._

“Oh, come on!” he waves his arms to emphasise the point. “You stop it. Relax! Look, I spent seven years in a dorm full of teenage boys; and if any of them’d woken up with a face like the one you’re wearing right now, we’d’ve teased him for weeks.”

_Relax?_ “I doubt any of those nitwits dreamed of The Boy Who Lived to relieve their hormonal urges.”

“Ugh,” he scowls. “I hope not… I slept right next to them. ...Hang about!” His eyes go wide. “Did _you_?”

_Fuck!_ Those heavy, roaming hands were certainly not a boy’s. At least when I will deny it, _that_ part will be correct.

But he doesn’t even let me try to deny it. “You did! God, if only I’d realised it in time!”

“Oh, and what would you have done _then_? Taken advantage of the situation to assault me in my dreams?”

He smiles, worry lifted from his face, replaced by a mischievous quirk to the corners of his mouth that’s impossible to miss. “Well, y’know. Ever since you said it, I wanted to see if ghosts are different from incubi and that would’ve been the perfect time to find out…” Then his grin fades and he stares at me, absolutely serious if only for a flash of a second. “Would you have let me?”

I should never have joked about incubi in his presence. “It’s a pity you’ve missed your chance,” I drawl. “You’ll never get to find that out now.”

The glint in his eyes screams ‘I’m never letting you forget this’. “You could at least let me know,” he adds mock-casually, “Was I any good?”

_Yes, damn you!_ “Appalling,” I grumble. “Why do you think I kept calling your name?”

It’s useless; the whelp grins from ear to ear.

What _would_ Harry have done if he realised it in time? I can’t stop asking myself that question. I can’t help answering it in the same foolish way. Such a daft notion; impossible, irrational, confusing thought, but I can’t get it out of my mind and I can’t help wanting it to be true. I keep thinking back to the dream. It wasn’t real. _He_ wasn’t real. It was a dream, but not _his_ dream. About him, yes. But not _with_ him. Through all the confusion of the past day, only this is perfectly clear: that dream left me wishing the real Harry was there.

*

Of all the daft things I’ve done, absolutely convinced they were the right thing to do at the time, this has to be the worst!

What do you do when you miss your chance? If I was alive, if I could touch him just once, I’d’ve known exactly what to do. I wouldn’t’ve let a chance like that just slip away. I wouldn’t have to wait for a dream before I could do all the things I want to do with him.

Snape confuses the hell out of me. First he tells me to stay away from his dreams, then he says something like this, drops hint after hint that he wants me there after all. And half the time I don’t know what to think, and the other half I’m bloody sure it’s an invitation.

It would be so easy to find out if it is, if I could only walk up to him and kiss him and go on from there. But I can’t do that; all I can do is watch him for more vague clues.

He’s quiet, staring at the row of empty bottles lined up against the wall. “I’ll get rid of those tomorrow,” he mutters. “Or today, if you want. They’re only taking up space.”

I shake my head. “Your call.” And really, it doesn’t matter. What with all the other things on my mind this morning, I managed to forget about his drinking.

*

“Um. Snape?”

“Give me a moment.” There are only a few bottles left under the table. I bend down to reach for them, and then, by chance, I look up, amid the cobwebs and dust, and notice something that wasn’t there before.

There are scratches on the underside of the table. Only now when I squint at them, and run my hand over them, I realise they’re not just scratches. They’re letters: an H, etched into the soft wood, the smooth line gleaming, as if someone polished it in with a needle tip a thousand times over, followed by an A almost as clear. The next one, R, is fainter and the second R after it is just a line and the Y at the end is barely noticeable. I look around and sure enough, there’s an empty biro I discarded once, dropped and forgotten in between the floorboards.

“I just want to ask...”

“Harry. What is this?” It had to be him. Who else would do such a thing?

“What did you mean when you said… What?” Harry pokes his head right through the table, and peers at my hand resting over his name. “Oh, er, that,” he stammers sheepishly. “I didn’t think you’d notice it. I needed something to do at night, and I really didn’t think it’d be visible. Couldn’t press on the pen hard enough to leave a line.”

I run my hand over the letters again before settling into a chair and facing him in wonder, this time across the top of the table. I shouldn’t be surprised, but I am. This name scratched into the wood is a valid, substantial proof that Harry still affects the world with his presence, that he still exists. Even though I see him every day, this is something I’ve touched and felt under my fingers. I can almost imagine Harry, suspended like a fly under the table, trying to will the pen into writing his name, repeating each stroke a thousand times over. It must’ve taken him forever. “How long did you spend on this?”

“A while, I guess. Started it one night, ages ago, just to prove I could.” He shrugs. “It’s nothing. I had a lot of time on my hands, and I reckon I’m too stubborn to quit halfway.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and asked me for a pen and paper,” I grumble.

“Ha,” he snorts. “And let you know I could write? Do I look that daft? Knowing you, you’d’ve wanted me to re-submit all the essays you marked Dreadful in all my seven years of Potions, and that would’ve taken ages.”

“And rightly so. You’d’ve only had yourself to blame for not writing them correctly the first time around.”

When I stand, he’s hovering right behind me, a transparent presence that I usually take great care not to walk – literally – into by mistake. “Uhm…” he mumbles something barely loud enough to make out the words: “Can I ask you something before we… er, anyway. Was I really that appalling?”

_Appalling?_ “Let’s just say I’d prefer to deal with your entire Gryffindor year, Longbottom included, than to put up with another one of your…”

“What?” he cries. “Oi, no! Not that. I didn’t mean in _class_.” He shakes his head. “Today. In your dream. You said it, and I can’t tell if you’re joking or meant it.”

_The dream? He wants to know about **that**?_ “You can’t be serious!”

He smiles wryly. “What _can_ I be serious about then? It’s not like I’ll ever have anything else or even… that.”

I don’t have an answer for him. I doubt anyone has.

“I reckon it’s true when they say you can’t have everything you want,” he finally shrugs. “In life, or after it, in my case.”

“Harry, believe me, if it were in any way possible, I would…”

“S’all right,” he stops me. “At least you’re here, and we’re talking. That’s what matters. I think I can live with it, with you.” He flashes me a grin, “If you promise not to ask me to rewrite my old homework.”

Impossible Gryffindor. Must he always look for the bright side?

His eyes flicker mischievously as he tilts his head. “You smiled just now.”

_What?_ “No I didn’t.”

“Maybe not,” he concedes, “But you _wanted_ to.”

I _do_ want to. So when my mouth curves into a smile in response to his words, for once I don’t fight it.

“Y’know,” he is smiling as well, “If I wasn’t a ghost, I bet you’d be horrified at the thought of me in your flat. Sometimes I’m glad I’m not alive, ‘cause you’d probably never let me stay with you otherwise. You don’t like people.”

While I contemplate that particular bit of information, he moves in closer. “Or maybe, if I really tried, hard enough and long enough, you’d let me after all. Hold still.” And then he reaches out to me, still wearing that contagious grin of his, which I absolutely refuse to respond to. I would step back, but my elbows press against the wall.

“You’re warm,” he murmurs. “When you’re this close.” Then he looks up and his expression holds childish curiosity mixed in with adult sombreness.

I doubt he has the slightest idea how those expressions of his affect others.

I duck my head, habitually hiding behind my hair. He reaches up and tries to push it out of my face. It doesn’t work, of course, but in between his spread fingers and through them, I see wonder in his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers, “if I was alive, you’d never let me do this.”

I’ve changed my mind. Now I think he knows precisely what he’s doing, that he’s following some sort of plan when his hands come to rest against my chest. For a second the dream flashes through my mind and I expect them to be heavy and warm. They’re neither. I can feel nothing, no matter how much I wish I could.

Meanwhile, Harry is still so close to me. “Perfect,” he grins.

There is nothing perfect about this. Though I can’t even feel that frisson I get when he passes through me, I suspect that he can feel me. He must be able to sense something at the point of contact with material things, the same way he can lean against a wall or sit on a chair: by concentrating on their presence hard enough that their surfaces become real to him. I wonder how it feels to him to touch me.

This shouldn’t unsettle me so. It’s only Harry; but recently he’s had a hunger in his eyes. I’ve seen squibs stare into Ollivander’s shop window like that: an insatiable fixation on something precious, something impossible to obtain, yet impossible not to want. It’s a hunger I understand, all too well. I don’t want to give him up either.

“Stay still, just for a moment.” He closes his eyes and then leans in against me, chest to chest, his hands on my shoulders, his face against my neck. I have to stop my hands from digging into the flat surface of the wall, and tell myself to relax. If I stay still like this, how long will he continue to chase shadows of sensation? How far will he take this search for phantom feelings, if I let him?

I look down, and his mouth is just a little bit away from mine: so very close. Unreachable. “If I can’t move,” I tell him, “neither can you.” If I am to play this game, I’d like to be the one setting the rules. He can’t expect me to let him come this close, without any warning whatsoever, and just passively wait for him to do even more unexpected things.

“Not fair,” he points out. “At least I’ve got a good reason to ask. I can’t concentrate enough to touch you when you move.”

“It’s not supposed to be fair. I can’t touch you at all.”

“Fine. But is this all right at least?” He rests his forehead against my shoulder again and simply waits. It takes all of my concentration to stay still as he asked and not to lean against the contact – even non-existent – not to raise my arms and grab him by the shoulders to pull him close. I have to tell myself again and again that it can’t happen like that. My hands would go right through him like a mirage. I’ll never be able to hold him, no matter how much I want to.

And yet I agree to this madness. “It’s ...acceptable.” I murmur softly. I shouldn’t even let him get this close. It will accomplish nothing, so why am I letting him – letting myself – do this now?

Out of the corner of my eye I can catch a glimpse of Harry’s face. He keeps still, just as I asked him. So close. And somehow having him this close is less awkward than I expected. Perhaps it’s because we aren’t dreaming and everything’s so real. Now that I’ve had time to get used to the idea, it seems almost ordinary to stand like this, five steps away from my kitchen, to have Harry’s unruly hair under my chin, to hear Harry’s voice whispering a few inches below my ear, mixing with the distant rattle of the trains.

“Say something,” he asks after a long, silent pause.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t care.” His shoulders twitch. “Just something. My name.”

In my mind’s eye, I can still see his name scratched underneath the table. The deeply etched H and the fading train of letters after it. Harry, I repeat it in my head, and it sounds so personal, so intimate. ‘Harry’ implies a connection, belonging. I never would’ve thought of calling him by his first name when he was alive, but now I seem to do it too often. Perhaps it’s time for a little more distance. “Harry Potter,” I tell him at last, trying to fall back into the indifferent tone of reading a class roster. “Satisfied?”

“No, not that,” he persists. “Just the first. Please?”

Stubborn imp! I give into my instincts then and allow myself this one comfort; slowly I turn my face to him and murmur into his transparent fringe: “Harry.”

At once, the faint aura around his head flares brighter; so does the rest of him. That’s what he wanted, isn’t it? Connection. If I’m honest with myself, it’s what we both want.

Harry grins and I suspect that my face brightens as well. “I like the way you say it.”

“Why?” _What’s there to like?_

“I dunno.” He blinks and glances down. His hands on my shoulders fidget nervously. “It’s distracting. Sometimes I listen to you and forget what I was thinking.”

I suspect that there’s more to that confession. I watch him and wait. He grows more nervous, but his eyes – oh his eyes – are dark and heavy-lidded.

“Like this?” I rumble, deliberately dropping my voice even deeper than usual.

“Ah.” His gaze flickers down to my mouth, then back to meet my eyes. He bites his lip. Even though I can’t feel it, his fingers clutch at my chest and it looks painful.

“Still distracted?”

“Yeah. Frustrating.”

“It doesn’t have to be. Step away.”

He shakes his head.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know!”

Harry can’t lie at all. It’s written all over his face, along with frustration. His expression is intoxicating. I wonder if he realises that. “Yes you do.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Tell me. Or I’ll stop.”

“Fine! It’s your voice.”

“What about it?”

“It’s warm and it’s yours and I can’t stop listening and I can’t focus and you’re driving me insane,” he whispers all at once with a quirk of a smile on his face that seems to convey: there, I said it. What are you going to do about it?

“Insane.” I echo him. Precisely so! “Now you see, don’t you?” I lean close to him, making sure to keep that deep timbre, the one that turns his eyes unfocused and makes him bite his lip and turn his head, exposing the line of his neck and the curve of ear to me just so. “To have something _so close_, yet never have a chance to touch it. Are you willing to spend your existence _not_ having?” He doesn’t deserve that; he deserves so much better.

He makes a sound, incoherent.

“Didn’t hear you,” I drawl, louder and in my normal voice this time.

“Bastard!”

“Quite. Look at me.”

His eyes snap up.

“Why weren’t you ever this attentive in Potions?”

I miscalculated. What I’d hoped to be the final straw to promptly drive him away doesn’t faze him at all. His eyes narrow and he peers up at me through his glasses with a dry, perfectly executed version of my own sneer. “I don’t think you would’ve wanted me to have the same reaction to your lectures, _Professor_.”

It takes all of my concentration not to sidestep and get away from his direct glare. I can’t run. I’m cornered; so it only makes sense to make sure he’s cornered as well. “Oh? And what sort of reaction would that be?”

He holds the sneer for a while longer but then just drops his head down against my shoulder and lets out a defeated groan. “You _know_ what sort, y’bloody tease!”

I take a deep breath. I shouldn’t enjoy this so. I probably shouldn’t even encourage this, but I can’t help it. Not when he reacts this way to the mere sound of my voice. Not when I can hear his own voice hitch simply because I lean over and look at him. Not when he’s this close to me. “You’re aroused just by listening to me, aren’t you?”

“No.” He shakes his head, frowns. “Maybe. What are you doing?” His look is harsh and questioning.

That look of his – confused and determined at the same time – shouldn’t affect me so: nor should the nearness of him, of his mouth to mine. But it does and it brings to mind endless possibilities and all manner of reckless and impossible actions. “Hush.” I lean my forehead into the space taken up by the bright halo of his hair. I murmur his name again, deep and soft, just the way he asked for it. “Harry, it’s all right.”

It works like a charm. His expression calms; his whole aura brightens.

I consider reading to him later on. I thought of doing so before, after The Canterville Ghost. I _should_ read to him. And it’s not just the brief image of Harry reclining against me as I turn the page or his heavy-lidded look and his parted lips that convince me of it. I can’t give him much else, but that’s one thing I can give him: a couple of books and some peace of mind, at least for a little while.

“That was a question.” A harsh voice breaks my reverie and I realise he is glaring at me with similar harshness. “Answer it.”

What _am_ I doing? I’m drunk on this feeling of closeness to him, on the way he’s holding on, on the way he’s staring at me and reacting to the sound of my voice. Perhaps it’s not too late. I retreat silently, pulling back and keeping a neutral expression. What have I done?

“I _can’t_ answer it.” I don’t know how.

“Ah.” Surprise flashes in his eyes, but it’s quickly replaced by the same harsh, thin-lipped expression. “Then you should stop,” he says – his voice level, final – and then he steps away from me.

I lose my death grip on the wall and let go, desperately trying not to follow. Slowly I exhale. It’s like watching an ampoule of Ignis Alba crack: another second and he’ll shatter into a million pieces with my next breath.

He doesn’t. “Stubborn git,” he says in the same grim and level tone that he can’t quite keep from breaking. “I wish you’d make up your mind and let me back into your dreams or go on like before, but don’t tease me. I can’t take it. Not from you.”

His glare is pure ice, but it’s ice that is slowly starting to melt around the edges. And all I could think of is, if he wants this – we both want this: something real – who am I to deny him a memory that will warm him, in those nights yet to come, when he’ll feel cold without human company.

Perhaps I’ve been wrong, but it’s not too late yet. There’s still time to make it right.

*

After his outburst we watch each other all day. Cast each other sideway glances and wait for something, anything to happen. The air is thick with tension: electric, like the oppressive hush before a thunderstorm. At nine I can take it no longer. I walk over to the window where Harry sits, and draw the curtains open. He jumps off the ledge and looks at the window, then at me in surprise.

“I have a request.”

“Yes?”

“I’d like your company tonight.”

His eyes light up. And he freezes, as if he’s not actually sure he should nod or shake his head and break the illusion of the offer.

“No dreams,” I clarify. “I think I’d like to be awake until morning.”

His head drops. “Snape, I told you…”

I step forward and watch him until he trails off in the middle of the sentence and looks up. Then I respond, my voice level and low: “I’d like this to be something _real_.”

He looks at me, as disbelieving and confused as if I’d told him he’s alive and everything else has been a dream. I reach out, knowing my hand will go through his own hand resting on the window sill, but reaching nonetheless. “Is that all right?”

His gaze shifts and he finally moves, nodding frantically. “‘Course. Yes! It’s… I’d like that.” He smiles tentatively. “A lot, I think.”

His movement brings us closer and suddenly I discover that we’re standing face to face against the open window. Déjà vu. Such a familiar dream, only now it’s real and it feels as though in another moment I’ll reach out and take his glasses and he’ll look up at me with that determined gleam in his eyes and lunge forward. _Did Lucius ever do this?_

By the unease in his expression, I can tell that Harry’s realised it too.

I count the lights in the distance and hope that my own awkwardness is not as obvious as his. When Harry turns I step right behind him, not close enough to touch his opalescent form but close enough to _feel_ as if we’d touch any moment now. “If I could, I would take your glasses off,” I murmur. “And then, perhaps I could show you that foolish Gryffindors do not have a monopoly on ‘something drastic’.”

His lips part and his fingers dig into the edge of the window sill. “Didn’t we agree that dreams are bad?” he murmurs, a reminder and a warning rather than a question.

Leave it to him to remember that at a time like this. “They are.” I breathe against his transparent hair and watch it flare up brighter in the dark. “But right now neither of us is dreaming.”

“What do you have in mind?” he simply asks.

“Anything you’d like.”

“Really?” I can just see all those ideas hiding in the corners of his eyes. But he grins and requests something entirely mundane. “Open the window?”

I reach around him and do so. It’s dark outside but I can smell the ozone scent of heights, fresh like his hair in my dream. It must be about to rain, one of those wild June showers that strike without a warning, travelling down the Thames, setting the river bubbling up mile by mile. The kind that, were Harry outside right now or in one of his dreams, would make him look up and spin, his mouth wide and his arms spread, trying to catch the drops amid the rumbling downpour.

I can hear the distant sounds of traffic, but more than that, I hear the wind rustling the leaves in the tree tops. The damp gust of it swirls through the window at us, warm but refreshing nonetheless. Although there’s no possible way Harry can feel it, he smiles and tilts his face toward it, all the same. A few raindrops fall right through him and splash, heavy and cold, onto my skin.

Eventually I leave him to enjoy the view of an upcoming storm and strike a match, lighting a candle. Then I light more of them, one from the other, my usual, nightly reaction to the darkness outside. The flames quiver in the breeze, sending the shadows scattering across the walls. I remember doing the same thing months ago, when I thought Harry had left me and wouldn’t return. That time it was a gesture of honouring the dead, but now it’s all about life, seizing the moment and holding on for all it’s worth, while it lasts. Perhaps it’s time for unusual things, and no one is better than Harry at doing the unusual.

I first question my decision to follow his plan when we sit on the floor and fill out a crossword. Harry crouches over the page, reading the clues line by line and tracing the corresponding empty squares with his finger.

“Wormwood,” I suggest for the next one, leaning over the unfolded newspaper and failing miserably to keep my distance from him.

“Ah,” he nods. “Yeah, looks like it’d fit.”

I’d planned to read to him, perhaps, but instead of a book Harry asked for a nearly-decade-old Daily Prophet from the dusty stack of papers in the corner. He’s the reason why I had to turn the fragile pages to find the crossword and start writing words on the yellowed paper. There’s a photo of him on the front page – unmoving, the charms animating it worn out long ago.

It reminds me of my first summer in London when one could still occasionally see a wizard on the streets trying to make the old robes pass as an overcoat, when the entrances to the magical world – St. Mungo’s, the Ministry – still gathered quite a crowd futilely attempting to find a way in. It was those places that first attracted the Muggle officials to them.

It was a block from one of those places, away from the eyes of the gloved, uniformed Muggle police putting wands in plastic, that an old woman I didn’t recognise approached me with a Daily Prophet in her gnarled grasp. “Keep this, son. It’s our history. Don’t let them have it all.” I took it and hid it out of sight for three years until the charms animating the photos no longer worked, but even after that I couldn’t bring myself to look at it often. So it remained unread, hidden between the pages of Muggle newspapers.

“Firebolt,” Harry says, pointing. “There. Seven, across.”

I write it in. “Is your broomstick still with your Muggle relatives?”

“Why d’you ask?”

“No reason. Is it?”

“What’re you planning?” His eyes narrow suspiciously. “Is that why you’ve been all secretive lately?”

I allow my mouth to quirk into an amused smile. “Whyever would you think I’m planning anything?”

“‘Cause you are,” he parries. “I reckon you’re planning to pinch my old broomstick from the Dursleys’, fly off to Hogwarts, and leave me all alone here to explain to everyone where you went.”

I smile and let him believe it. After all, I’ve found an easy way to distract his mind from wandering where it should not. I lower my voice, murmuring “Is Hogwarts all you ever think about, or does that wild imagination of yours occasionally produce other fascinating thoughts?”

“Sometimes it does.” He looks up and freezes. Something flickers in his eyes, a craving. “Right now, I’m thinking I’ll never listen to you speak the same way again.” Then he ducks his head down, awkwardly. If he wasn’t transparent I’m certain his face would be quite red.

*

“Severus,” he says.

Hearing it startles me more than my own name ever ought to.

“There,” he points. “Nine, Down. Severus.”

Thankfully he doesn’t notice my surprise. “It can’t be.” I check the clue nonetheless.

“Well, now it is,” he declares. “And ‘Four, Across’ is Harry.”

“It certainly isn’t.” Although Fifteen, Down does ask for The Boy Who Lived, surname. The crosswords in the Prophet always used to be laughably simple.

“Write it down anyway!”

I look at him and the only thing I can do is regret the countless evenings and nights wasted in silence when I could’ve spent them like this, with him. Then I do write it down: his name, then mine. They share a consonant.

*

The crossword is filled out, corrected, argued over, and finally laid aside.

I hold the tip of my pencil over a candle until the wood chars around the graphite. Harry leans closer to it, over the faint ribbon of smoke stretching up.

“Can you smell it?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “Try something else?”

I plan to do just that. “Give me a minute.”

“What? Why?”

“Be patient and you’ll find out.”

I return from the kitchen with a saucerful of different things: coffee and sugar, pepper and cinnamon. I ask Harry to close his eyes, and then I burn pinches of each of the spices one by one, over the candle flame. The procedure feels strangely familiar, like any other experiment that kept me awake for nights, only this one is not in my laboratory and I am not alone.

Harry sneezes at the pepper, and grins happily at the burnt sugar as I drop another pinch of it over the candle. “More?” he asks. I remember watching him eat in the Great Hall – even then, I’d noticed his fondness for treacle tart – and I recalled the way he’d always taken Dumbledore’s sherbet lemons. I sprinkle the rest of it over the flame and let it burn, then watch the flowing wax cover the cinders.

To my surprise he names the substances correctly one after another. “What, it’s easy,” he shrugs at my questioning eyebrow. “They all smell different.”

“I taught you for seven years and I know perfectly well you can’t tell sage from ammonia unless someone thrusts the labels under your nose and spells them out for you.”

He just snorts. “I can taste them from their smoke in the air, that’s all. You’re still a terrible teacher.”

Impossible brat.

The smoke from so many different substances gives the air a strange, mixed scent, like kitchen cupboards afire. Harry reaches out for the flame; it flickers every time his fingers touch it. “I used to think you were like a candle,” he says.

“Why a candle?”

“Here. I’ll show you.” He stands up, closes his eyes and takes a spin around the room until he looks disoriented enough to fall. “First you can’t tell if it’s warm at all, but if you hold your hand over it long enough, it burns.” He does just that, holding out his hand and feeling the air around him. After just a second his head instinctively turns to me, his eyes open and he smiles. “That’s exactly how you are.”

I watch him circle around the room. He looks like an odd sort of predator, still learning to hunt and not quite ready to pounce and grab, but instead going in wide circles and pretending to direct his attention to this and that: the books on my shelves or the candles, never quite approaching me closer than five steps away. Casting me obscure glances and never taking them further than a fleeting look.

One of these detours takes him past the bed; he sits on it and sheds his cloak. It disappears in flecks of white before it ever reaches the ground. The collar of his shirt is unbuttoned and crooked; his sleeves are crumpled up past his elbows.

He looks awkward and small, somehow, sitting on the rumpled bed. “Funny how things turn out,” he says. “I thought I knew every corner of your flat by now, but this is the first time I’ve ever sat here.”

I merely watch him: his grey hands against the worn grey sheets.

“Haven’t had a bed in years,” he lets out a sombre chuckle, “Sort of forgot how it feels like.” He gestures at the pillow. “Can I?”

I nod.

He kicks off his boots first. Just like his cloak, they melt away after they leave his feet. Then he reclines carefully on top of the covers, facing me, his arms folded around himself. His wispy hair is a halo around his face. My pillow holds no weight where he rests his head.

He closes his eyes. “Last time I did this, I was still alive. I spent the entire evening trying not to look at Ron’s empty bed next to mine, but what I really wanted to do was crawl under the blanket, cover my head with his pillow and pretend that the last few months never happened. But I didn’t. Instead I finished Hermione’s letter.”

It takes a while until the realisation hits. He’s talking about his last night before dying. Ever since he first showed up in my flat, he’s never really talked about the circumstances of his death. This, now, is probably the closest thing to it I’ll ever hear.

I was wrong then, when I mistook his behaviour for awkward flirting. Perhaps there was no second meaning at all behind his actions.

“I thought then: what if tomorrow is it? What if they’ll finally attack Hogwarts and it’ll all end? I just remember thinking: good, at least there won’t be any more waiting. I was so tired of everything – the war, the attacks, and more people dying every day – and angry at myself and everyone else, but most of all at Voldemort. So fucking angry at that bastard that I just wanted to track him down right that moment and snap his neck. I couldn’t even sleep. I knew I needed rest but no matter what I tried, I couldn’t. Maybe if I’d known then that it was my last chance for a good night’s sleep, I’d’ve tried harder.”

There are dark circles around his eyes. I haven’t paid attention to them before. I used to think they were just a part of him being a ghost, but perhaps the explanation is much simpler. He didn’t get a good night’s sleep before he died. I would’ve let him have my bed long ago – covered him with my blanket and let him sleep for days – if only that would’ve helped. But that’s just one more thing I can’t do for him.

“It was almost morning and Hedwig returned, but without a letter.” He smiles softly. “I miss her. She used to make those crooning noises and they’d put me to sleep. She was really good at that.”

It starts raining. I get up to close the window.

“No,” he stops me. “Leave it. I like it like that.”

“All right.” On my way back, I blow out the candles leaving only the one on the floor by the bed still lit. “What happened the next day?” I ask trying my best to keep my voice level, although I’m anything but calm.

He shrugs. “It wasn’t much of a day. Just morning.” For the first time I remember, the look in his eyes is not quite human, but one of a ghost.

I sit down on the edge of the bed and place my hand next to his on the pillow. Not quite touching but there.

“It was raining. I didn’t get much sleep. Dumbledore woke me.”

I search his face for a glimpse of what he leaves unsaid, and instead of the words of consolation I want to say, what escapes instead is the question that’s been preying on my mind for weeks. Before I can stop myself, I whisper “What’s it like?”

He tenses up. “I... I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“That’s all right.” I slide my hand closer to his and reach across his shoulders, resting my arm on the opposite side of the bed. The candle flickers in the breeze from the open window. Outside the rain turns into a heavy downpour.

He looks up at me, and looks away, his expression indecipherable.

I wait.

“Our wands locked,” he murmurs looking off into nowhere, “I was just trying to hold on to it, to keep the aim right, and then the spell felt wrong and everything went white and quiet, and I thought: it worked! So I ran to finish off the bastard but he was gone and everything else was gone too. It made no sense at first. All that quiet… the silence. Silly, huh.” He smiles, so painful it might as well be a grimace. “Took me a while to realise: that’s it, no more fighting. And then, the only thing I wanted to know was if I’d managed to kill Voldemort or if he’d killed me. I _had_ to know what happened, to Hogwarts, to everyone. It didn’t even sink in till later that I was really dead, for good. I still felt alive.”

It’s not exactly what I expected to hear. I know better than to hope that my own end will be that quick and painless, but I’m relieved to know that _his_ was. I should probably thank him for an honest answer, even though it’s the truth that hurts the most, or do something to reassure him, comfort him, but instead I just nod and let him speak.

“I was so scared of dying. Turned out it wasn’t as bad as I thought. I hardly even noticed it. Not at the time. Then, I just wanted to kill the bastard.”

When I reach out, I’m not quite certain whether it’s for my own comfort or his. I make the first move, but it’s Harry who turns his head and all but presses his cheek against my fingers, as if by pretending to feel them, he can make it happen for real.

Perhaps it’s the haunted look in his eyes; as ironic as it sounds, I never expected Harry to have it. Perhaps it’s the small, miserable note in his voice that he tries to hide under his usual cheer. I don’t waste time wondering why. Instead I pretend as well, and lean down, closing the last bit of distance between us, until my mouth almost – always _almost_ – touches his forehead. It’s a gesture of comfort more than anything else. Something I never got from anyone. Something I learned not to want from Lucius when I was Harry’s age.

He’s been through so much for someone who never lived past seventeen. He’s achieved so much as well. In a way, I envy him for still being able to smile and dream and exist as if nothing happened.

“Oh,” he whispers. I expect surprise written all over his face but when I look down, his expression is clear, with a small, warm smile. “That’s... really nice.” He lifts his head from the pillow, supporting himself with his elbows, turning toward me as instinctively as a sunflower toward light. “Again?”

Again, I hide my nose in the unruly mess of his spider silk strands as my own hair falls down around my eyes, shielding everything else from view except Harry’s bright eyes and the familiar quirk of his mouth and his faintly glowing features. I don’t attempt the kiss he probably expected, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“I could almost feel you, I think,” he says in tones soft with surprise; his hands lift to my face when I lean back. “You’re so warm.”

‘… like a candle,’ his previous remark springs into my mind and I smile at the comparison only Harry would manage to make sound logical. It doesn’t help that my mind conjures up a small, nearly transparent moth that keeps seeking out the flame against all sense and reason. It never ends well for the moth. “Don’t burn yourself.”

“I won’t.” He snorts. “Um. If I ask you something, promise you won’t be mad.”

“That will depend entirely on what that ‘something’ is.”

“Yeah. I s’pose.” He nods. “At least try not to?”

“All right.”

“Then will you... Do it again? Like before, only…” he tilts his head up, finishing that sentence without words.

I look down at the line of his bare neck and shoulder revealed by his unbuttoned collar. At his lips, slightly parted. “Will you feel it?”

He shakes his head mutely, ruefully. “But I still want you to.”

I calculate the angle required to keep my nose out of the way. Then I dip my head down past that tempting mouth and to the corner of it, very much like he did to me in a dream. And here I stay, holding my breath, keeping still.

The moment stretches... he doesn’t move.

Eventually, I pull back. His eyes are serious, wide, enough to make me ask, “Anything?”

“Almost,” he lies. The corners of his mouth curl upward, wistful and sad. “Thank you.”

I give him an amused look. “If you expected me to be angry over _this_, then you certainly…”

Whatever I was about to say is lost and I can only stare as the fabric of his shirt shimmers and melts away like a mirage, leaving only his smooth body beneath, skin as clear as his face or his hands, lit by its own soft glow.

Of all possible things, I certainly never expected this. “Harry?”

His eyes are frantic over the half-moon lenses; and since Harry never does things by half, his glasses are probably the only thing he still _has_ on, though I daren’t look to verify. “Please. Um. Just... talk! You’ve got the best voice. I like it. Just listening to you talk.” He stops, just as suddenly as he began and just looks at me. His eyes speak volumes.

I try, I really do try not to stare. But my gaze slips unobstructed down the line of his bare neck, over the curve of his shoulders, down the smooth planes of his chest, and every contour is a revelation. Something this wonderful does not happen – should not happen – to me. “What do you want me to say?”

“I dunno. Anything. Whatever’s on your mind.”

“The only thing on my mind,” I lie barefaced as always, “is the improbability of someone like you, in my bed.”

He smiles awkwardly. “D’you mean it in a good or a bad way?”

“An impossible one.”

“Not impossible, just… unusual.” His fingers stroke up my arm, up to an elbow, stop. “Hang on.” His glasses shine in the flickering light.

He reaches over the edge of the bed for the last candle, forming a fist around the flame. It turns smaller and fainter and finally winks out in a puff of smoke, as if it had been left to burn under a glass turned upside down. Darkness falls, and in the gloom the only thing I can still see clearly is his glowing body, still bright before my eyes.

“There.” He shifts toward the wall, making room. His face is tense, just like the rest of him. “Lie down?”

I rise and take a quick step away. He sits up. “No, please, I just want…”

I unbutton my shirt and for once let it slide off my shoulders instead of hanging it up; I don’t even glance at it when it hits the floor. “It’s all right,” I answer carefully, trying not to let the panic show on my face or in my voice. “Give me a minute.”

As I start on the rest of my clothing, he pushes his glasses up, runs his hand through his hair, and bites his fingernail in quick succession. He probably never expected me to listen to him, and now that I have, he’s as lost as I am. I hope he can’t see too much in the dark. As I finish undressing, I feel sure he would want to see me about as little as I want to be seen. What else could that flash of uncertainty mean: that near-wince as his gaze shifts from me to himself?

“I probably look like a fright to you.”

What? Me? Oh… him? “What are you talking about?”

He chuckles bitterly. “I’m blue and I glow.”

He can’t be serious. “Ghosts are supposed to frighten,” I remind him. “_I_ don’t have even that excuse.”

The breeze from the window sends shivers down my spine. I reach for my nightshirt.

“Leave it. Come here.”

I’m cold and tempted to slide under the blanket. Perhaps under the covers, I won’t be so painfully aware of the Mark on my arm, of the scar through my chest. I can hide my thoughts with a mask of indifference and I can hide my past with long sleeves and silence, but I can’t hide when I’m like this. But then, Harry doesn’t have the option of hiding at all, and so I sit down on the bed, and watch him watching me.

There is no way to hide now, just as there is no wand under the pillow to reach for comfort, but I’m past wishing for it. This isn’t about my comfort; it’s about Harry, about giving him something real to remember, something more than a handful of fabricated dreams. When he remembers me, I’d like it to be a good memory.

When I saw a ghost for the first time in the Great Hall, I was eleven years old and fascinated. Now, decades later, I face another ghost as if I’ve never seen one before; I take my time and give every detail its due, making the most of this one chance. But this is not just any ghost. It’s Harry, my Harry now, a study in impossibilities: unruly heart and unruly hair.

The conclusion of such a study is laughably simple. “With that mop, you’d fail miserably at frightening anyone.”

“Um,” he asks, tentative, shy. “Is that a good thing?”

In reply I give him the dry huff of amusement that’s easier on my chest than an actual laugh. “A very good thing indeed.”

He nods then and tugs his glasses off, letting them fade away like the rest of his clothes. Then he shuts his eyes, tense and unsure whether to move closer or jump away. “I must be dreaming,” he murmurs through a growing smile.

For a second I consider doing just that, against all sense and logic: surrendering to a dream and finally allowing myself to touch him and feel it. Then I think of what I wanted for tonight. Something real.

“No dreams.” It’s a warning and a reassurance. “Just this.”

He looks up. “D’you mean it?”

_Every word._ “Anything you want.”

“I want your hands.” His own hands reach for me as if in demonstration, tracing the contours of my forearms briefly before he lets them fall again. He whispers defiantly, “Want you to touch me and I want to touch you back, but I can’t unless you’re...”

“Look at me.”

He stares, nervous and desperate and ready for all manner of drastic things.

“Come closer.” I lean back and settle my weight on one elbow. He follows me, stretching out, cat-like, and resting his head against my arm, as casually as if it was clean of the bruise-dark, faded silhouette of a skull and a snake.

I focus on Harry’s face first, running my fingers through the fine mess of his hair, reaching for but not quite touching the tip of his nose, the plane of his cheek, the curve of his lower lip. His hand, a glowing blue shadow of mine, trails and catches up, passes through my own, lingering over his mouth. He smiles and the fingers concealing it give that smile an air of mystery.

My fingertips trace the line of his jaw, slipping down his neck and across his chest, pointing out the path for his own hand to follow, and it does, just a step behind, his fingers spread wider than mine, pressing just a bit harder, thumb a bit further to the left of my fingers: brushing a nipple. His eyes widen at the sensation. “Oh.”

That flash of surprise makes me smile. I can’t help myself then; I trail my hand down his tense body in a wide, sweeping arc – no lower than his waist – before drawing it back up, to his other nipple. His hand shadows mine, skimming over muscled contours, always a beat behind.

He truly is a beautiful sight. This close I can see every hair: fine and sparse, but just as messy and untamed as on his head. It’s as if he was struck by lighting once and it’s been bristling with static ever since. I run my hand down his chest again just to see if his hair will rise to meet my touch, the way his cock already has. Now instead of stopping at his waist, my hands slip further and further down his body, easing ever closer to that eager erection. After refusing to let my attention linger there before – out of politeness or shyness or any number of other awkwardnesses – now at last I look without shame. Utterly tantalising: his cock strains toward me, its tip already gleaming with wetness I can never taste. Saliva gathers thick and warm under my tongue: the thwarted urge to lick and suck and and savour every inch and every drop of him is a physical ache, as real as thirst.

I swallow and tear my gaze up to Harry’s face, afraid I’ve been staring too long or with too much hunger. His pupils are so wide, his face so open, so painfully honest, one glance tells me all I need to know. And what I see there eliminates every lingering doubt I had. There is no turning back from this, no stopping now and I won’t; even though all I can ever do is tease him with the promise of something more.

So I do; I slip my hand in slow, glancing circles, around his thighs, the hollows of his hipbones. Teasing him. “Keep up.”

“Uh-huh.” Yet his hand is still.

Perhaps it’s cruel of me to tease, but I’ve been far more cruel for far less reason. “I don’t think you need my hands. I don’t think you need anything at all, but my eyes on you and my voice in your ear like this.” I murmur into the silver strands of his hair and know that it won’t be long until he forgets all about wanting my touch, distracted by his own. If there’s one thing I excel in, it’s persuasion.

I can’t touch him, but sight and hearing are powerful senses, and it’s fascinating to watch the transformation of his face, the way his eyes glaze over and his lips part as he takes in my words like air. “Ohhyes!”

I smile and wonder if he’d agree with me if I told him the earth was flat. “Shall I keep you like this all night?”

“I asked, didn’t I?” His hands twitch, he arches up and the look on his face screams: undone. “Please,” and that last word, merely a whisper, is my own undoing as well. Because what comes next is a desperate need to take him all in, to stare him down, to edge my way in between the thoughts lurking behind those expressive eyes and remain inside him for eternity.

Somewhere between me reaching out and him trying to hold on, he places his hand flatly against my own, palm to palm, matching the positions of each fingertip. His fingers illuminate mine with a faint blue glow, seen but not felt. It’s fascinating how quickly this can become familiar. Like the wrist motions of a wand hand: cast a spell once, and the hand will remember how, for years after the magic is gone: lighting a match in the swift curve of _Incendio_, shielding against unexpected flashes of light with the wide arc of _Protego_. Just like the spells, this too, soon enough becomes instinctive: going through the motions, pretending we can touch.

“Pay attention.” _Good. Like that._ I pull my hand away and slide it down, following the bend of skin at his hip down toward his groin, my touch slowing as I draw closer, until I pause and simply wait: for the time when won’t be able to stand it anymore and his hands will lead instead of follow.

I realise that he’s more stubborn than I thought: his fingers dig into his thighs but he refuses to move them. So aroused, yet so trustingly, achingly still. “Snape.”

“Severus,” I correct him. So many have used my given name uninvited and unwanted. _He’s_ the one I actually want to use that intimacy.

“Severus.” The smile lights up his face.

_Yes. Like that._ As I bask in his smile I know that this is what I want him to remember, when he remembers me: “...exactly what I want.”

His eyes – so wide – slip closed, and he surrenders.

I cannot take my eyes off him: his head, fallen back, his whole body arching up as he thrusts into his own hand. In my mind’s eye I see him, sitting in the window of a train: how he leaned out, nearly falling in total abandon, his eyes shut, his entire body reaching for the sun. Only now it’s not sunlight, it’s me he’s reaching for, with that arousal on his face, that absolute need; and then, with astonishment in his eyes when he realises a moment too late that he can’t hold back any longer.

“I’m here, Harry. I have you.”

I am addicted, there is no other way to explain it: to his voice, his need, this urgency and closeness, to Harry. To that look in his eyes and that lost and wanting smile. I put it there. I’ve given him this pleasure; I’ve roused him to this peak. That thought alone is nearly enough to have me writhing in desperation for a touch I won’t feel, blissfully oblivious, just like him.

When he collapses next to me, his forehead is against my chest, one hand against my shoulder, unmoving but still unable to let go. I wish for a brief second that this was a dream, just so that I could hold him.

He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. There is nothing more to say.

*

“Sleep,” he murmurs. “I wanna meet you there.”

I shake my head.

“Stubborn git. You’re gonna make this as difficult as you can, aren’t you?”

“You don’t have to do anything.”

“Shh.” Two fingers against my mouth prevent me from adding anything else. “Lie back.”

I refuse to be silenced so easily. “Harry, I don’t expect anything, given the circumstances.”

“Yeah, and which circumstances are these?”

Wordlessly I run my fingers through his wrist suspended over my jaw as if it wasn’t even there. But the light of the accepted challenge and a million ideas already gleam in his eyes.

“I’ll manage,” he smiles. “Just like you did.”

Impossible Gryffindor. I hmph and roll my eyes before my body betrays me any further, communicating my agreement in an entirely different way.

He tilts his head and leans down, brushing his next words against my mouth. “And I think you’ll like it. A lot.” His look promises a number of drastic things.

“Do you now?” But he’s right. I _do_ like it, enough to let him take this so-called conversation as far as he wishes, enough to let him do anything.

Conversation. What a pallid little word, far too bland for what we share. My only other experiences – teenage encounters with Lucius – were wild and hungry, without a single word exchanged or needed. Now all I have with Harry is words, and yet it’s still as passionate as anything I’ve ever known.

“Tell me,” Harry murmurs. “What did you dream about?”

“Just you.”

“Oh, it must’ve been more than that.” That mischievous glint is impossible to miss. “Tell me everything.” He moves from his place along my body and sits up, throwing his leg over mine and straddling my hips. “Was I doing this?” His fingers glide up my forearms, and down my chest. “Or this?”

I can feel every fingertip punctuated by shivers in the places where they would’ve touched. _Both. Neither… **Focus!**_

“Hmm?” He leans over me and all but breathes the next question into my mouth. “This too, huh?” And my mind automatically supplies the feel of his sun-warmed skin and the weight of his roaming hands. I didn’t really make a sound this time, did I? I said nothing to prompt that devilish grin on his face, though it certainly hints that I did. “What part did you like the most?”

How can I say ‘the part where it was you’ in a way that doesn’t sound obsessed or incredibly naïve? It isn’t quite the truth. It wasn’t really Harry in my dream. But now it seems I have what I wanted.

“Wish I could fix this,” he murmurs as his fingertip traces a slanting line across my chest.

At his offhand remark my throat goes tight. For a while he made me forget all about the scar, so much so that the sudden reminder blindsided me. I reply sombrely, “So do I.” He has no idea how desperately I want that.

Or perhaps he has some idea: he must’ve noticed something in my expression. “You worry too much,” he frowns, his forehead against mine, like a stubborn colt trying to push down a fence. “Stop it. S’all right.”

Breathe. Just breathe. I can’t afford a breakdown now.

I focus on his eyes and try to hold onto this moment – here, with him – rather than the past or the future which I cannot change. This present is ours, and we’ll make of it what we want. And I want him.

“You’re brilliant, y’know,” he whispers. “Perfect. I never thought I’d have you like this.”

If there is a fitting word to describe what he does to me, the way he looks right now, it would probably be ‘brilliant’. The way he responded to every word I whispered in his ear, the way he makes me react. No dreamscape could compare to the simple sight of him, all of him, pure and primal and impossible to look away from. No dreams, no distractions, just Harry. Only Harry.

What does he see when he looks at me that way? Surely the person he sees right now cannot be real. No one’s ever looked twice at the real me.

“Everything’ll be fine now. We’re going to be fine,” he murmurs and there’s that familiar hunger in his eyes. “I’ll make sure.”

I nod, mesmerised, and allow myself to believe it, just for a moment.

“Severus,” he lets my name roll off his tongue, tasting it, syllable by syllable. “Severus.” He smiles. “See what you do to me? So good. Can’t get enough.”

_You. I’ll never get enough of you._ But my throat is too tight to let the words out, so I just look at him, storing up memories, while I still can.

“Your turn.” His hand traces my jaw. “Don’t you want to?”

He pulls away and sits back. I follow, without even realising it at first. “Yes.” Anything. With him.

“Good. So put your hand” – in a determined rush he leans over me and his mouth descends. I can only stare, mesmerised at his parted lips, at the tip of his tongue following the exact line of where he’d drive me insane in seconds with the touch of it – “here, before I possess you and do it myself.”

If it was anyone but him I’d probably never let them – let myself – get this far, would never agree to this, but he is right, I do like it, more than like it, this not-a-dream with him. Enough to fall back against the sheets, craving as much of it as I can, even the revealing, raw, and open torture of eye-to-eye and not quite contact. The moments of struggling to keep my eyes open, to keep my eyes on him, on his face, on his lips over my mouth, steadying my heartbeat and dreading the pain in my chest (No, not now! Please, not like this!) gasping for every breath like it’s my last, exhaling against him and inhaling through him. His unfelt hands and unfelt mouth – so close and yet so far, his ‘yes, like that’ and ‘brilliant’ and ‘beautiful’ and ‘Severus’. His tousled hair and the ozone filled gust of wind from the open window, sudden and chilling against my skin – the scent of it and the way he leans over me resurrecting the images of _that_ dream. There’s need and confusion: Harry, dipping his head down for almost a kiss, and I can almost feel my lips tingle with the intensity of it. Every breath I take is charged with energy, the shock of it resonates down my spine as the light of him flares brighter. There’s thunder, somewhere far away, for the last time, and then the stillness of the sky after the rain takes over and drowns out all thought.

Afterwards, despite my aching limbs, my dry mouth and my eyes raw from insomnia, I feel so damned good. Better than I have in years.

Grey light and the sounds of the city beginning to wake spill through the open window. It’s already dawn and I didn’t even realise it. I am content to lie back against the headboard and let Harry curl up against me, in a nest of rumpled bed covers, resting his head against my shoulder.

“You look tired,” he whispers. “Get some sleep.”

“I will.” I say to reassure him. “Stay here?” I ask to reassure myself.

“‘Course! M’not going anywhere.” He smiles, sated and peaceful. It suits him. “Got all I need right here. G’night.”

My mouth twitches in automatic response before I even realise it. “Good morning, Harry.” For the first time I’ve managed to beat him to saying it. It feels like quite an achievement.

*

Take away the curtains and this place looks brand new. I can hear the trains and the cars outside more than usual, but even with all the noise Snape’s – no Severus’, it’s Severus! – breathing is still calm. Stubborn git only fell asleep when it was already light outside.

In this light he looks older than usual. No, not old, just older. Worn out, tired maybe, but not old at all. It has to be just ‘cause of the sunlight coming through the window like that. All that bright light brings out faint wrinkles around his eyes and mouth and a bit of grey at his temples – it’s the first time I’ve noticed he has any grey, but the rest of his hair is still black. Usually he doesn’t even look his age. And grey hair doesn’t mean he’s old, it just means that he’s been through a lot.

Sodding hell, I’m turning into him, what with all the worry and the doubt: thinking that something’s got to be wrong all the time and expecting something to go bad every time something good happens. But it isn’t wrong. And it won’t be. Things are fine – just perfect. They’re finally turning out for the better.

I can’t believe I ever doubted him. We’re going to be all right. We are! I just have to believe it and in time it’ll be all right. ‘Cause this is only a good thing, how can it be bad if it feels so good? He’ll see. I’ll _make_ him see that.

After all this time, he still managed to surprise me. I don’t know what I expected, but I definitely didn’t expect this. Not his bed or his hands or his voice. Oh, his voice, I didn’t even know before just how much I like hearing it! How could I miss a thing like that? And his face: I like it when he smiles. His face isn’t harsh anymore and his eyes get this spark. It’s brilliant! He should do it more often.

We should do _this_ more often. Tomorrow night, or before then, when he wakes up. Why wait? And I’ll talk him into dreams too. He’ll come around. There’ll be more dreams for us, no matter what he says. Eventually. I can be patient; we’ve got all the time in the world. There’s so much to look forward to now.

And the best thing of all is: I know now what he’s hiding. I know what’s on his mind. It’s why he’s been so worried and silent lately. He can’t help making it all into this big complicated secret, when really it’s as simple as it gets: we’re going to Hogwarts, and together we’ll get Hogwarts going again.

Funny thing about the silence: I used to hate it, but then a moment like this comes along, and now I don’t mind it. I love the quietness when the time seems to pass by twice as slow, as slow as the first bright rectangles of orange light climbing across the ceiling and down the walls. It’s peaceful.

It’s dawn. I’m almost tempted to wake him up early and show him how much more bright and warm and alive this place looks now, with the window open and the curtains not shut tight for once.

But no, not now. He’s tired; I should let him rest. Plenty of time to show him later.

  


* * *

 

1.  
The song Snape heard from Tobias is called Ann Boleyn by R.P. Weston and Bert Lee, 1934. The full version of the song lyrics can be found [here](http://ingeb.org/songs/inthetow.html).

> _In the Tower of London, large as life,  
> The ghost of Ann Boleyn walks, they declare.  
> Poor Ann Boleyn was once King Henry's wife -  
> Until he made the Headsman bob her hair!  
> Ah yes! He did her wrong long years ago,  
> And she comes up at night to tell him so.
> 
> With her head tucked underneath her arm  
> She walks the Bloody Tower!  
> With her head tucked underneath her arm  
> At the Midnight hour.
> 
> _

2.  
The ‘upthrust cucumber’ which contains Draco’s office is a skyscraper located at [30 St. Mary Axe](http://www.30stmaryaxe.com/). Their website contains some good photos of the building.

3.  
This chapter is inspired by the following songs.

[Silence and I](http://lyricsdownload.com/parsons-alan-silence-and-i-lyrics.html) by Alan Parsons.

> _If I cried out loud over sorrows I’ve known, and the secrets I’ve heard,  
> It would ease my mind: someone sharing the load, but I won’t breathe a word  
> We’re two of a kind, silence and I. We need a chance to talk it over._

[Ghost](http://www.lyricsfreak.com/i/indigo+girls/ghost_20067260.html) by Indigo Girls

> _Dark and dangerous like a secret that gets whispered in a hush.  
> When I wake the things I dreamt about you last night make me blush.  
> And you kiss me like a lover, then you sting me like a viper  
> I go follow to the river, play your memory like a piper.  
> And I feel it like a sickness, how this love is killing me.  
> I’d walk into the fingers of your fire willingly  
> And dance the edge of sanity – I’ve never been this close  
> I’m in love with your ghost._

[Flames](http://www.lyricsdownload.com/vast-flames-lyrics.html) by VAST

> _Close your eyes. Let me touch you now.  
> Let me give you something that is real._

[Surround Me](http://www.uplyrics.com/3-11_porter_lyrics_8332/surround_me_with_your_love_lyrics_305483.html) by 3-11 Porter

> _Hello? Can you hear me?  
> Please don’t go. Where are you going?  
> Conversations go over my head.  
> Isolation has an ugly face.  
> Surround me with your love  
> Understand me, I need you now  
> Surround me, with your words…_

  


>   
> 

  


> _   
> _


	9. Firebolt

*

I wake to the smell of coffee, sunlight, and then the shock of a fleeting touch. It’s gone before I decide whether it was real. “G’mo’ning.” Harry smiles around the charred slice of toast in his mouth, balancing a second slice and a mug in one hand. His eyes shine.

_Good? It’s impossible!_

He flops down to sit on the bed, his unbuttoned shirt flapping open. Coffee splashes. When I sit up and reach instinctively for the mug, our hands touch and it’s a revelation all over again. His fingers are so solid and warm. I can still feel them even when I catch my breath and let go.

The coffee stain on his sleeve fades into white but I barely notice. I can’t help staring: at his bare chest, at the trail of hair that leads my eye down from his navel to the low-slung waistband of his jeans.

Then it happens again, the same warm shock when his hand covers the mug and touches mine. “Milk’n’sugar,” he murmurs awkwardly and doesn’t pull away. He must’ve felt it too.

I’m so disoriented – not by my coffee turning milky, that seems perfectly normal – but by the way he touches me, so casually and so often. Not even Lucius ever cared to do that. “What’s all this about?” In an attempt to explain what the question means, I glance around vaguely, instead of down his body where my gaze most wants to go.

“I, er. Thought I’d say sorry for spying on you, when you slept.”

“By making another dream?”

“Nah. Made you breakfast.” His fingers slip away; I’m too tempted to grab them. The steaming mug and crumbling slices of toast are uncannily real; so is my room, familiar to the last burnt-out candle; so is Harry: all energy and awkward, hopeful glances. _Breakfast it is, then._ I shift sideways on the bed, leaving space for him at my side.

But he doesn’t budge an inch, sitting cross-legged in a nest of blankets. Instead he bites the toast, scattering crumbs all over the sheets. I arch an eyebrow at him; he rolls his eyes and the crumbs vanish.

Fine. If I haven’t given him enough of an invitation, I don’t know what else he’s waiting for. Perhaps, now that he’s seen me in broad daylight, he’s finally seen sense as well. So I pull up the sheets I’d left turned down for him, trying to cover the scar on my chest as I take a sip of coffee. Where did I leave my nightshirt yesterday? Ah, on the floor with the rest of my clothes.

Harry snorts. “Prude.”

“Did you expect a show?”

He nods with a suggestive leer, but his expression sobers quickly. “Relax. S’all right.”

_Relax? How can I?_

“You can worry when you’re awake, but now…” He slips his shirt off. “Ta-da.”

I must look like a fool, staring at him like this. I feel like a fool. I can’t stop myself from saying foolish things, like “What are you doing?”

He takes the mug from my stilled hands, sets it aside. Gives me one of his cheeky grins. “Obvious, innit?”

My gaze follows his hands; I can’t look away as they open the button of his jeans, pull the zip down. “Excuse me if I don’t find some things all that obvious,” I whisper, breathless. They’re quite complicated. Harry began complicating my life the day he was born.

He moves to stand and I move with him as if tied to him by my gaze, until I’m sitting on the edge of the bed and he’s standing just an arm’s length away. His movements are unselfconscious as he steps out of his jeans and underwear. Another of those shameless smiles shines down on me, warm as the sunlight that kindles red highlights in his hair, turns his skin a soft gold. “I can put the shirt back on. Want me?”

Oh, I want him, all right. My hands reach for him, my body answers him without words. I want all of him, just like this. The tense muscles of his thigh, the lean angle of his hipbone, his hardening cock.

“M’not used to this either,” he breathes. “I just act like I know what’m doing. Can’t help it, y’know, ohh….”

“Typical reckless Gryffindor.” I cradle his balls in one hand, rolling them gently in my palm, as my other hand strokes up his shaft with a feathery, tantalising touch.

He pushes his hips forward, angling blatantly for a firmer touch on his cock, but I draw back as he moves, keeping it light. Teasing him. “Am not!” he gasps, smiling as his shoulders lift and his head tilts backwards.

I lean toward him and mouth words around a taut nipple, between gentle, suckling bites. “You are! Treat everything like Quidditch. Never think of the consequences. Just grab the broomstick and you’re off.” He snorts, but it shifts to a gasp when I curl my fingers around his cock, so hard and hot.

“Dunno, never had enough of a chance to grab _your_ broomstick.” He bends, trying to reach for my cock, but damned if I’m leaning back out of the way before I’ve given his other nipple a good seeing-to.

A chuckle, hitching in the flesh under my lips, is all the warning I have before he launches himself at me: heavy and solid and warm, so utterly alive. As we fall back together onto the bed, I wrap my arms around him and just hold him as close as I can, so tight I squeeze the breath from us both. He gives a panting laugh; my joy is too deep for laughter. All I see, all I hold, all I breathe at that moment is Harry: he fills my world, he _is_ my world.

Kisses, slow, slick, and warm as the melted butter on his tongue, flow from his mouth to mine, coiling between our lips like the smoky tang of burnt toast. At once he pushes against me, rubbing, as fast and insistent as if he’s determined to come in the next ten seconds. But this is too incredible to rush, and I roll on top of him, use my weight to slow his impatience, still him until he accepts a more leisurely pace.

His hand slips between my legs, teasing and fondling: persuasive little sod, I should’ve known better than to expect him to accept anything.

He slips out of my embrace and ducks from view beneath the covers.

No. I can’t stand not seeing him, not even for a moment, not even so I can lie back and wallow in the pleasure he’d offer. I reach down and grab the bedclothes, hurl them aside. He blinks up from beneath a fringe tousled by the sheets and my haste.

“When I did this last night, you went all still,” he murmurs before he turns to face my erection, smiling when he sees just how hard I really am. He’s so close that the soft gusts of his breath brush my sensitised skin. “Like you didn’t want to get in my way. You hardly moved a muscle. Only _this_ twitched – yeah, just like that,” he licks his lips, the bloody little tease, “That’s how bad you wanted it.”

“Harry…”

He leans in and touches the point of his tongue to the wet tip of my cock, and just that tiny lick is all that’s needed to drive every thought right out of my mind.

“Ssh,” he breathes, “Wanna taste you.” He closes his fist, so firm and good, around the root of my cock, lowers his head and then his mouth engulfs me: liquid, licking, and slick. I drown in waves of tingling heat, so dizzy I can’t see, but I want to see him so much. Little devil, that look’s just as wicked as his tongue, and it's got to be forked to swirl like that. That firm grip, the soft, slick slide of his lips is too new and too good, and – no! – I don’t want to come so soon. I pull him up, gasping into his unruly hair as I thrust into his hand still fisted around my cock. It’s bliss to be tangled together like this, naked and slippery with sweat, so aroused it hurts to breathe.

I clutch him to me – one hand kneads his arse, the other wriggles down between our bodies, seizes and strokes him – and I bask in the feel of veined, hard heat filling my fist. He moans against my throat and works me harder, twisting on the upstroke till I want to sob with need. As he strokes me his other hand dips lower, fondling my balls until I purr and arch into his touch. In reply I slide the hand on his arse inward, fingertips, teasing and slick, slipping down his cleft. He tenses and writhes in my arms, just as mad with want as I am. I smell him – sweat and precome and hot young flesh. His forehead presses against my chest; my face is in his hair and I feel every strand of it, caressing my skin in the rush of our shared, frantic breaths. I savour every shiver down the length of our bodies: mine, scarred and gaunt; and his, scrawny and wiry, all Harry, from curling toes to dry lips and wet eyelashes. I’ll never get enough of him.

“Yes, yes, oh god, oh, yessss.” Fractured, panting words, mine, his, both, doesn’t matter. Every stroke on my cock, every thrust of his cock into my fist, is a plea, a demand, an order not to stop. With every heartbeat I do my best to match his pace. Rising heat hardens my every muscle, tightens the coil of his body against mine, and as he cries out and pours himself into my hands, his own hands seize fistfuls of my hair and hang on desperately, as if I’m all that anchors him here. The twinge in my scalp, even the hammering ache in my chest doesn’t matter: not when the shudders ripple through the body pressed so close to mine. Ecstasy spikes so sharply it shocks my lungs still, stifles the cry in my throat. As the last spasms fade I collapse into his arms and let the rest of the world slip away.

*

We lie afterwards in a shared sprawl of sticky limbs. Nothing this tangled should be half this comfortable. Harry’s plastered to my side like a snake to a sun-warmed rock, nuzzling persistently into my sweaty hair, drawing deep lungfuls of my scent, as if it was rare incense. I mouth admissions of my own against his skin, rather than silencing myself completely. “You’re incredible... perfect.”

What will become of us now? I honestly don’t know, and for once, I allow myself not to care. I simply surrender to the sunlight and warmth of this moment, no matter what other unexpected declarations it makes me utter. Perhaps I’ll admit that I like this side of him: the carefree, flirting, utterly enticing imp. Or maybe I’ll confess how touched I am to find even one person who genuinely likes my company (though I can’t fathom why).

Moments like this make me want to believe in the existence of something beyond the mundane. Something like magic. Or love.

“Mm?” he hums the question against my skin. And I can’t think of anything else to say that hasn’t already been said, one way or another. So I kiss him instead, slow and deep and sweet enough to ache, and show him that there are times when words aren’t necessary at all.

When we ease apart for air at last, I murmur, “Besotted brat,” expecting an equally teasing reply. It never comes.

“Uh-huh,” he sighs, admitting everything, just like that. Beneath the breathlessness, his voice is calm, content. “Never thought I’d have this. Have _you_. S’like... something – loads of wonderful things – I never thought I’d get.” His hands slide over my skin instinctively all the while, stroking, petting, never quite still.

“What kinds of things?” I take one of those searching hands before it closes on my sated, sticky cock; on sheer hedonistic impulse I lower my head to taste the salt in the crook of his arm, and mouth the tender veined skin of his wrist. It’s ironic, when he’s the one who hasn’t felt touch in years, that I crave it just as much as he.

“Mmm.” He stretches lazily; his voice is languid as he replies “Like flying, again. On a broom, I mean. Or like fireworks; remember the Twins set off that arsenal all over Hogwarts when they left school? Oi, don’t laugh!”

I try to ignore the image of a pyromaniac ghost, wild hair and wild eyes, intent on blowing the entire castle to bits. “I wasn’t.”

“Always wanted to set off Filibuster Fireworks when I haunted Hogwarts, ‘cause it was always so bloody quiet there. But I never could.”

His smile fades and I search my mind for a distraction. He shouldn’t dwell. But he rouses himself from that sombre moment of his own accord, smiling softly as he tells me, “You’re like fireworks. You always were. Used to blow up at me all the time.” A flash of a teasing grin, before he meets my gaze and grows suddenly serious, sincere. “And you’ve always been absolutely bloody brilliant.”

Something unexpected jolts through my chest: a poignant clench of bliss and pain, driving me to kiss him with the desperation of a dying man, holding onto the last moments of life.

*

I still don’t believe it. Yet.

It’s almost noon and he’s still asleep. He should do this more often: let himself rest instead of dragging himself up and out of bed by sheer force of will. He can’t be a morning person; he used to catch me all the time roaming Hogwarts’ corridors late at night. He just forces himself awake at sparrowfart, out of sheer bloodymindedness.

It’s been so long since anyone could touch me that I sort of forgot how good it felt. I never saw Snape reach for anything that way before today; well, maybe some sort of potion or an ingredient, but never a human being. Never me.

He shifts and covers his eyes with the back of his hand. His palm is pale and creased, with a fine white scar cutting across his lifeline. Just as well we learned in Divination that palm reading is a load of old cobblers. According to Trelawney I died weekly. I wonder what that batty old bint would’ve made of Snape’s palm?

His mouth twitches.

“Um. Morning.”

His eyes are still closed, but he murmurs something back. I reckon I can count it as an invitation, so I stay next to him and even throw my arm over his chest. Too bad he can’t feel it now.

His hand traces the edge of the blanket and he pulls it up to cover his left arm. His eyes flicker from my face to it and back to me. Worried.

“M’staying.” I say, before he says something or tries to get up or do something else Professor Snape-like. “You let me last night.” _And this morning._ “Can’t take it back.”

A pause. Then a grumbled, “Idiot.”

“You promised!”

“Do you think me that much of a heartless git?”

“Oh. Now I don’t.” Just lying next to him isn’t enough, so I shift up on top of him and rest my head over his chest. “Wanna stay in bed all day?”

He hmphs. “You are welcome to do as you wish, but how exactly did you intend to keep me here?”

It’s going to be wonderful, I just know it. “I’ll think of something.”

*

I’m still thinking in the bathroom doorway as he glares over his shoulder. But it’s a good sort of glare. “Stop ogling me,” he finally says, “impossible…” What’s so impossible, I don’t get to hear ‘cause he sticks his toothbrush in his mouth and the rest comes out as a ‘mfft’.

“M’just looking. You’ve got a grey hair. Right here,” I point in the mirror. Just to prove that I wasn’t staring without a reason. “See.”

“It’s a wonder I haven’t gone completely grey.” He turns around and his eyes go even wider.

“What?”

“Are you planning to get dressed today at all?”

I shrug. “What’s the point? No one can see me but you.”

The corners of his mouth twitch and that’s as good as a smile on someone else’s face.

“I reckon I just won’t bother wearing anything from now on.”

He huffs.

“You don’t _mind_, do you?” I try for innocent, but it comes out impish anyway.

“Of course I mind! But how do you propose I go about persuading you?” His eyes flick down occasionally but he seems too determined to keep his gaze up on my face.

“You’ll think of something. I believe in you.”

His hands twitch, as if he wants to reach out but stops himself. “Harry,” he says dryly, “I suspect you’ve just given me another of those grey hairs you’re so fond of counting.”

“Good. I like ‘em. Come back to bed?”

“Alarming fascinations,” he mumbles. I wonder what he means by that, his hair or Snape himself, but he doesn’t clarify, just hmphs and still pretends to look in the mirror, even when I move in front of it. “You’d do anything to get your way, wouldn’t you?”

“Depends,” I grin up at him, “Is it working?”

He leans closer. “We have an errand to run first.” It sounds almost like an excuse, and a familiar one.

“Another one of your Slytherins?”

That smirk grows as he shakes his head. “Unless you know any from Little Whinging.”

What? Little Whinging? Does he mean it? “What’re you going _there_ for?”

“Isn’t it clear by now?” he drawls with that blank look of his: the one that hides the beginning of a smile. “First I’m going to ‘pinch your old broom from the Dursleys’ as you so eloquently phrased it, and then I’ll fly off to Hogwarts, leaving you all alone to explain to everyone where I went.”

*

_The sun shone over the perfectly trimmed hedges and Mrs. Leysdur’s prized hydrangea bushes as she poked her head out of her kitchen window, the set of binoculars in her right hand. There was nothing out of the ordinary happening in Hedge Drive this morning, and, as she had told Mr. Leysdur on repeated occasions…_

… that’s just fine with me, thank you very much, and that’s just what I’d tell anyone who was clever enough to interview me about my book after it becomes a bestseller (and what with all the drivel on the shelves nowadays, how could it not be a bestseller!). Talk about the exposé of the decade, when people read about the goings on around here, they’ll simply die of shock! Privet Drive, the perfect example of a respectable neighbourhood. Ha! For instance, just take that ever-so-respectable Mrs. Tompkins and the way she sneaks out after dark with the hosepipe, and right in the middle of the water restrictions too! Just who does she think she is, better than everyone else? Does she think no-one will notice? As if Prudence Tompkins has it in her to put one over on me! Maybe if I was as unobservant as that useless clod of a husband of hers – working all these years in a bakery, as if being a jumped-up counter boy was a worthwhile career! – maybe then she’d get away with it. But I know better, and just as soon as I get nice clear photographic evidence, so will the council! She won’t be boasting about her precious garden any more when they slap her with a nice fat fine, the cow.

Or take the Prentices, for example. Wasting all that money for another car they don’t even need, just to park it right next to our house and block the view from our parlour. Appalling! As if that would distract me for a second from noticing when her precious Mr. Prentice sneaks into the house through the front door after dark. The front door! Has he no shame? When everyone knows he’s been unfaithful for years, and that silly bint of a wife of his is too blind to see it! All she ever does is brag about her daughters as if they’re anything special. Nonsense! My darling Diddykins is doing so well in the world and you don’t hear me bragging about him to the neighbours day and night. I always knew he’d go far. He was always such a healthy, strong boy. But that sister of mine, her brat was a freak from the beginning, just like her, and look what happened to the pair of them. I’ve always said, if the parents aren’t normal, you can’t expect much from the children.

Oh dear, just look at that dreadful looking man! Some sort of tramp with that awful shabby overcoat. And when was the last time he washed his hair? I shudder to think. Honestly, where are the police when you need them? His sort needs to be moved on, out of decent neighbourhoods! Disgusting!

And just _what_ is he doing in our driveway? Who does he think he is to have the right to sneak and snoop and – whisper things to himself – right next to our home like that?

It can’t be just a coincidence. He can’t be… What could he possibly want with us? Oh no. Binoculars! Not the sink! The disposal! Where’s the switch? Where’s Vernon?

Is that beggar really going to knock? He can’t really be a beggar, how could anyone like _that_ have the gall to visit us? But who could he be? Oh dear, why did he have to show up today, when the hallway hasn’t been dusted yet? What if he’s _not_ a beggar? What would people think, we’re some sort of freaks receiving guests in a pigsty. Quick!

“Vernon! I think there’s an _undercover detective_ at the door! I _told_ you people would ask questions after Harry disappeared!”

*

A skinny, sour-faced woman stands in the doorway, as thin as her husband is fat. Something in the twist of her mouth reminds me of Lily. The man’s bristling moustache reminds me of my predecessor at Hogwarts, Slughorn. Or possibly of a walrus.

“Vernon and Petunia Dursley, I presume?”

“That’s us,” the man replies brusquely, shifty-eyed and sullen as a brat caught stealing sweets. “And you are...?”

“I am,” I riposte, “here regarding Harry. Potter.” _It’s Potter, not Harry. I mustn’t forget._

“He left home years ago.” Petunia falters. “We haven’t heard a word since. What about him? What’s he done?” As she speaks, she doesn’t spare a glance for me: she’s too busy looking right through Harry at the neighbours’ windows.

“Wouldn’t be surprised if he’s dead by now,” Dursley grunts. “He was always a bit touched in the head. It ran in his father’s side.” He continues with a wary glance across the street. “That boy was dangerous around normal people, so if he’s not dead he’s probably a criminal, or worse!”

Harry snorts. “It gets better! They made up my entire life story. Ask them what sort of school I went to! I bet it wouldn’t be Hogwarts.” He looks edgy and stressed. I think back to his dreams, where the cupboard appeared large and threatening.

A car drives by and stops across the street. Petunia casts a worried glance over the hedge at its windows. “Do come in,” she announces loudly with a false smile. “Vernon and I are delighted that you found the time to visit.”

Harry eyes them, then shrugs and slips through the wall before I have time to enter through the doorway.

“It must’ve been difficult for you to lose touch with your only nephew like this,” I say as Dursley shuts the door behind me and escorts me into the sitting room. It’s the same house from Harry’s dreams, that much is obvious. We walk past the cupboard I already saw once in Harry’s dreamscape. I wonder if the bars on the upstairs window are still there as well.

Petunia’s expression spells ‘terrible ordeal’. “We are still recovering,” she says sombrely and disappears into the kitchen.

Harry rolls his eyes. “I’m sure!”

“I assume you have kept his possessions?” I ask Dursley in the meantime.

“P-possessions?” he splutters.

“Yes. He left his broom with you.”

“Oh, don’t say that!” Harry cries, “They hate magic!”

I arch an eyebrow at Harry – _Why?_ – as Petunia reappears in the doorway with a tray of lemonade.

Harry shrugs. “No reason, just ‘cause it’s something different, I s’pose.”

Sure enough, Petunia’s face turns white as she sets the tray down in front of me. “Did you say a _broom_?” she caws. “Just what sort of nonsense have you heard? Don’t you listen to that silly old Mrs. Figg, she’s gone quite ga-ga since her husband passed away!”

Meanwhile, Harry drifts past her into the corridor. I hear a faint knock. Do the Dursleys have a pet? No, it seems like it’s coming from a cupboard door.

Harry eyes it warily, then cautiously pokes his head through it. He looks back grinning. “It’s still there!” he whispers. “It moved!”

“Harry assured me his possessions were left with you,” I drawl. _He certainly did; just this moment._

The Dursleys seem uneasy, pointedly ignoring the noise. “Why would my nephew even have something like that? Boys his age don’t worry about sweeping floors!”

“Watch this.” Harry grins and stretches his hand toward the cupboard. “_Accio_ Firebolt!”

There’s a loud thump. At least there’s no mistaking whose broom it is. Only a magical object owned for years would recognise its former owner even after death.

Petunia jumps and snatches the lemonade she served right out of my hand. About time. It saves me the trouble of pretending to drink it now that the charade is over. I disdainfully wipe my hand off after she takes the glass.

“He’s not a detective! What would a normal detective know about something freaky like that!” She spins on her heels, crying shrilly, “He’s one of THEM!”

“THEM? But you said their kind was dead and gone years ago!”

“He should’ve been! Do something!”

Dursley stares at me and his face slowly turns red. Pudgy hands reach for my shoulders. “Take your crackpot ideas and your prying questions and get out of our HOUSE!”

“Not. Without. The broom.”

“I- I’ll call the police!” Petunia quavers.

I sidestep, putting myself between her and the telephone. “Oh, you _really_ don’t want to do that,” I growl, “because I am indeed one of Them, and you know what They can do.” It works; she shrinks into the corner. I turn and stalk toward her husband. “I know what you did to Harry, you disgusting, loathsome bully.” I hiss into his face, watching it go the colour of spoiled milk. My own face, my whole body, declares the murderous intensity of my hatred, with a predatory purity I have not known since I was a Death Eater. The man deflates like a punctured blimp, sagging back boneless and trembling against the cupboard door. “Since you saw fit to jail an innocent child in that tiny cupboard, perhaps I should _shrink_ your bloated carcass and shove you in there! Or imprison you upstairs for the rest of your worthless life, behind locks no thug like you could ever hope to break!”

“Don’t listen to him, Vernon! He’s harmless,” Petunia shrieks, “He hasn’t even got a wand!”

The news bolsters Dursley’s courage: he swells and bristles like a puffer fish. “How DARE you threaten me!” Suddenly even the air in this place seems too heavy and thick for me to breathe as he stomps up to me and shoves me aside. My shoulder glances off the wall and I have to lean against it to steady myself, as I struggle to take only shallow and quick breaths.

“LEAVE HIM ALONE!”

That cry fills the room like a bolt from the blue; it makes Dursley forget all about bullying me as perhaps nothing else could have done. I never would have thought anyone that fat could move that fast: Dursley backpedals frantically away from Harry, who stands – glaringly visible and incandescent with fury – between me and all harm. Foolish boy. Though Dursley certainly got the fright of his life when he found himself face to face with Harry’s ghost, yelling at the top of his ethereal lungs.

“You… you aren’t real!” Dursley stutters, and his loud gasps drown out my own attempts to breathe. Finally he turns his head toward me. “It’s one of your... your magic tricks! Stop it!”

“He’s not doing anything!” Harry rushes forward till he’s face to face with his uncle. “_I’m real!_”

Dursley glares at me, trying not to look at Harry, as if I were the one who was speaking, not him. “Nonsense!” he croaks. “Ghosts don’t exist.”

“_I_ DO!”

His wife is as white as a sheet in the doorway. “They do.” she whispers into the silence that follows Harry’s cry. “Lily told me about them.”

I glare at Dursley until he inches out of the way. “If you don’t want every last one of your precious neighbours to _see_ Harry haunting you, and _know exactly why_ he’s doing it, you’ll give us his belongings. _Now_.”

“Take them.” Petunia nods toward the cupboard. “Take them all,” she spits, “And get out!”

In the cupboard, among cobwebs and dust, is the broom: an ordinary broom to the untrained eye, but the graceful curve of its handle has been sculpted for riding instead of sweeping. There is a feather tied on a leather cord to the end. Eagle? No, too large for a bird. Hippogriff. A faint Firebolt logo is etched on the side. I grab it first. A few books are there as well: books which don’t deserve to be locked up in a Muggle house. There’s a shock of recognition when I spot the thick, familiar spine of my old _Advanced Potion-Making_ textbook, imprisoned between _Magical Me_ and _Quidditch through the Ages_. Even counting my old text, it’s certainly not the Hogwarts Library, but we can’t afford to leave anything behind. I scrabble to gather them all, before Harry’s odious relatives have a chance to intervene.

“Who do they think they are, robbing us like this?” Petunia sniffs. “I always knew Harry’d end up a criminal.”

“You reckon _I’m_ a criminal? I’ll show _you_ ‘criminal’!” Harry scowls, like a bull about to charge a red flag.

Petunia screams, covering her face with an apron. Dursley cowers behind her, shaking like a blancmange.

“Leave them. They’re not worth it.” In an attempt to get Harry’s attention, I swipe at his head with the broom handle. His hair ruffles. Curious: did that happen because the broom is magical or because Harry owned it? I gather the broom and the books awkwardly into my arms and stalk out. On the doorstep, I turn and fix the Dursleys with my most imperious glare.

“For your information,” I declare coldly, “Harry Potter is and will always be a better man than your selfish, intolerant little minds can imagine. Unlike you, he is incapable of an abusive or a criminal act.” My stare drills deep into two pairs of blank Muggle eyes, and I smile at them like a manticore. “_I_, on the other hand,” I hiss, viper-quiet, viper-vicious, “have _no_ such scruples.” I seize their front door and swing it shut with the full sweep of my arm, slamming it with a BANG so loud it rattles their windows.

The curtain is down; the show is over. I lean back against the closed door. Damn, that felt good!

Harry stares at me with something resembling admiration.

*

“Impetuous brat. Did you have to interfere?”

“I wasn’t about to stand back and let them insult you. They did it to me for too bloody long!”

“Well, I hardly need an attack-ghost to come rampaging to the rescue!”

“You got one anyway. He’s got no right to yell at you like that!” What was I supposed to do? Let him? I don’t think so! In fact, I still want to go back there, stick my head through the door and say something to make their jaws drop. Like ‘This is Severus, Uncle Vernon. We’re moving in. Have you still got my old room?’ or ‘I’m looking for a place to haunt. This is perfect,’ or ‘Sorry for not dropping by sooner, but I’ve been too busy making moves on my Hogwarts Professor. This one.’

Um, former professor, that is. Either way, I don’t want to even imagine Snape’s face if he hears that line. I balance on the edge of the footpath and float over a puddle while he strides down the street, grumbling “Just because you’ve been called the Saviour of the Wizarding world once or twice and have been sorted into Gryffindor doesn’t give you the right to rescue whoever you please.”

“I like it, so why not?”

“Why stop there?” he huffs. “Saint Potter, miraculously survived Certain Doom as an infant, saved the world from even more Certain Doom at seventeen, canonized upon death.”

“You left out ‘died a virgin’,” I deadpan. What? No reply? I glance over my shoulder, and a few paces behind me Snape stands frozen, without a comeback for once. I turn away and keep moving: he might recover faster if I’m not staring at him. “I reckon you’re just jealous,” I keep up the light tone, trying to tease him out of the dead silence I managed to shock him into. “How many people my age can say that about themselves?”

At last, he snorts, “You’re no Saint.”

Something swooshes behind me. What? “Oi!” Another swoosh and I can feel my hair standing up. When I look back again, there’s Snape, swinging the broom at me like a Beater’s bat: I’m only just in time to duck another clip in the ear.

“An article of many uses, the wizarding broom. Wouldn’t you say, Mister Potter? It sweeps, it flies, and – most miraculous thing of all – it even combs your hair!” He takes another swing at me and this time it comes so close I can feel it tugging at my fringe like a strong gust of wind.

“Bloody hell! Stop that!”

“Now you know how I felt when you kept running through me,” he smirks and sets the broom down. “Up,” he says, holding his hand over it.

“What? It’ll never work!” Maybe if he asks Ginny; she’s got magic. Well, for a few more months, anyway.

“Oh, really?” Snape drawls, smug as a cat in a canary cage.

“Yeah.” How can it work? His wand didn’t. “Stop acting weird. People’ll notice.”

His smirk widens, turns triumphant. “Notice what? A floating broom? But that would be impossible, don’t you think?” My Firebolt! It’s not on the ground; it’s hovering ten inches above it. He flicks his wrist and the Firebolt jumps up into his hand.

My broom isn’t supposed to do that, is it? Not to someone who can’t cast a spell. “What did you _do_ to it?”

He snaps his fingers. “Magic.”

“Don’t give me that!”

“For your information, the Firebolt line has been Squib-accessible since before you heard of them.”

“How’d you become such an expert on Firebolts?”

“Since they included rudimentary Legilimency in the steering charms. I was curious.” He lets the broom go, and it hovers again, right at his fingertips.

“Stop it, someone’s going to see.”

“Muggles are notoriously good at ignoring what they don’t want to see.”

“Ha! _This_, from the bloke who gave us hell for a flying car in second year?”

Snape snatches the Firebolt out of the air. “Testing this is a necessity. The former was sheer stupidity on your part.”

“Uh-huh.” I drawl sceptically.

“Speaking of Muggles,” he nods over his shoulder toward Privet Drive, “I’ve never seen Muggles as appalling as that lot. How could you stand them for all those years?”

It wasn’t really the Muggle part that bothered me. “I could put up with most of it: the cupboard and the chores and Dudley’s bullying. But they knew about who my parents were. They _knew_, but they lied to me for years, made me think my parents were nobody, nothing. It’s the lying I can’t forgive.”

Snape’s face grows serious. For a moment he looks as if he is trying to tell me something, but stops. So I find myself talking instead, just to fill the silence.

“I... er, when I first met you I sort of – now, don’t get mad! – I thought you were just like Aunt Petunia. Mental, huh?” I’ve wanted to tell him that for ages. “But you never lied to me, not once. Not even when you hated me. You always told me the truth, even when it wasn’t pretty or nice. I like that.”

There’s a flicker of something strange – vulnerable – in his gaze. He blinks it away. “It’s getting late,” he says. “We should go.”

I can’t understand him sometimes. But the mystery just makes it all the more fun: learning what makes him tick, bit by bit.

*

“I don’t know!”

“Imagine that!” Snape snarks in pure reflex, before he looks up at me from the armchair. “You’ve heard of it before. I told you about it.”

Course I’ve heard of it. I even saw it explode in Diagon Alley, and Snape’s been carrying some of it round in his pocket, ever since then. He took the ampoule out and wrapped it carefully in his handkerchief after we got back. “Albus something, I remember that much.”

“Ignis _Alba_,” he enunciates and I can almost hear the implied ‘Mis-ter Potter” hang in the air.

“Yeah… um, that.”

“Its effects are often confused with Gubraithian fire, though it has one important distinction: its fire completely consumes anything remotely combustible, though it burns slower than regular flame. The ingredients consist of phoenix ash, salamander bile, dragon saliva, powdered ruby, myrrh, erumpent fluid, holly berries and birch charcoal. Combine in a gold cauldron, store in a vacuum inside a hermetically sealed glass container.” His tone is as level and clipped as if he was reading it all out of a textbook to a classroom full of students.

He still hasn’t closed the curtains. My Firebolt stands in the corner of the room next to the newspapers. He thumbs through my old sixth year Potions textbook as casually as if he’d written it himself.

Wonder if he learned Potions with the same textbook as I did. He must’ve. That bloke, Borage – I only remember his name ‘cause Snape made that into an exam question once – definitely wrote like he was born at least a couple of centuries ago. I should know, I tried to decipher it. My great-great-grandparents probably learned with the same text. I wonder if it was quite that bloody boring back then?

“What are the properties of erumpent fluid?”

Oi, what? Who cares! I knew I shouldn’t’ve let him take all those books with us. That’s what started him asking me all these questions. “Er... It explodes?”

“And?”

“You get it from an erumpent.” How, I’m not sure I want to know.

“Congratulations. Your knowledge of basic potions ingredients never fails to astonish.”

“I never said I was good at Potions!”

“Just as well.” His mouth twists. “However, you might have been much less of a disaster had you applied that curiosity of yours to a worthy subject.”

“Huh?” Did I hear him right? “Are you serious?” After seven bloody years of ‘slice those slimy roots, Potter’ and ‘don’t stir the cauldron this way, Potter’ he says something like that? He can’t mean it.

“I’m always serious. Ask me a question.”

“What’m I s’posed to ask?”

“Anything. There must be something you wish to know. I just listed eight ingredients, half of which you haven’t even heard of before, judging by your reaction.”

He’s wrong. Who hasn’t heard of erumpents or dragons? Wonder how they get a dragon to spit? Or get an erumpent to give up his fluids, whatever they are. Perhaps erumpents spit too. It takes one thought of a spitting contest between a dragon and an erumpent, with small explosions and smoking holes all around them, for me to decide that we were bloody lucky Snape didn’t make us hunt for our own ingredients.

“_If_ you can manage to force a question out _some_time today...” Severus drawls in his Voice Of Utter Boredom, but the corner of his lip looks like he’s trying not to grin.

“Most of those things can explode a cauldron on their own,” I mutter to myself, before asking him, “How does anyone ever mix them all into a potion without blowing themselves to bits?” Oh, bugger, I don’t reckon that was much of a question at all, but I want to know.

“_That_, Mis-ter Potter, is where the ‘subtle science and exact art’ of Potions comes in.”

He’s enjoying himself, I can tell. I should’ve known I’ll never get an answer from him. I’m curious who’d win that spitting contest but I can’t ask him that. Probably the dragon; he’s got a longer neck; he’d cheat. “Have you ever tried making it yourself then?” There. There’s no way _not_ to answer that one.

“In incendiary and other combat potions,” Snape declares, voice and face turned up to Pompous Maximus, “there is no ‘try’; there is only ‘do’, ‘do not’, or ‘wish you did not’: the latter, with _exceeding_ brevity.” Stuffy git! He’s ducking my question again, damn him!

“Would’ve been brilliant if you’d taught us that in Potions.” I go for the wistful angle; haven’t tried that one yet.

“Taught you what?” he scoffs, “Common sense?”

“No, how to make it. You never taught us fun things.”

He snorts. Finally, some sort of reaction! “The only thing ‘brilliant’ about such a lesson would have been the glare from the burning classroom.”

“Fine. So what’s the point of my asking anything if you aren’t going to answer me?”

“Perhaps the point is to come up with a good question.”

“Why?”

“Harry, didn’t I just say, a _good_ question?”

“Git!”

“The greatest inventions in the history of wizardkind were made because someone asked a _good_ question, and then made an _educated_ guess as to what the answer might be.” He glares at me pointedly. “Your question was how to mix several highly explosive substances together, with life and limb intact. Now would be the time for an educated guess.”

“Er. Underwater?”

“Water isn’t one of the ingredients. Try again.”

*

At first, I think of sliding a spare key to my flat and a hasty note under Yelizaveta’s door. But then I change my mind and knock. The door opens in less time than it usually takes her to shuffle from the kitchen all the way down the narrow corridor.

“Severus. How are you?”

I raise my eyebrow. “English?”

“With this _negodyai_,” she frowns, motioning somewhere behind her. “Irina should teach him Russian long ago!”

A toddler makes his way past her and escapes, barefoot, bouncing up the stairs. “IGOR!” His laughter carries all the way to the upper floors. I never pictured Yelizaveta with a grandson.

“Igor!” she cries. “Your bath!”

“Would you like me to catch him?”

“He come back,” she waves. “Your guest, he stay?”

“Yes, he did.”

_So I thought_, she mutters in Russian. _You look like you spent hours chasing someone up the stairs too._ “Igor, return immediately!”

She lets out a deafening whistle. And somehow that stops the child in his tracks and he slowly, carefully begins to make his way back. Apparently he’s learned already that the whistle means business.

When I make my way back to Harry waiting in my flat, it’s with a heavy conscience. _You never lied to me, not once._ I suppose, after all, I do share one trait with those who raised – and abused – him.

I should tell him the truth, even if it’ll break his heart to hear it. The lies would hurt him just as much as my confession would… unless I reach Hogwarts. Hogwarts has its books and my potion stores. It has the cures for thousands of maladies, brewed by my own hands, hidden away and warded in my dungeons. I can find them, and Harry doesn’t even have to know why I am searching for them. It’s a dream, just as foolish as any of Harry’s wild ideas. I must’ve caught that Gryffindor optimism from him, somewhere along the way. That’s what I get for letting him stay with me.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But deep inside, I know that I’m doing this just to postpone the inevitable. Still, I’ll do my best to make certain that ampoule in my pocket is never used for the task that’s lurked in the back of my mind all along.

*

“No, you can’t pour them; the smallest splash spells disaster.”

“But how d’you combine them then?” he cries. It’s driving him insane, I can tell. He’s gone through every option he can think of.

I wait a while longer before confessing: “First cast a freezing charm on the ingredients, then grind the frozen form to powder and seal the powder into phials before it thaws.” Then I sit back and wait for the inevitable explosion.

It’s a little while in coming: for a long moment he just gapes at me. “I’ve just spelled out every daft thing I could think of, and you’re telling me a firstie could do it?”

“If it weren’t explosive, and if he could cast a good, durable freezing charm, then yes.”

He squints. “So, what’re we going to explode?”

“_Nothing_.” I give him my most forbidding scowl. “Why?”

“Why else would you’ve been carrying that stuff around since Diagon Alley?” he smiles.

Damn him, he pays attention when I least want it. “There are other uses for it.”

“What, more explosions?”

“An educated guess wouldn’t go amiss right now,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice even.

Ignis Alba is also used for cremation: the ash which is all it leaves behind cannot be used for Dark magic. But I don’t have the courage to tell him so. It’s easier to leave him guessing.

*

Muggles live in a simple, perfectly ordered world. They can draw a map of everywhere they’ve been, and if they ever lose their way, they can look until they find the place where they’re going. They shattered their ancient fortresses, with nothing more complex than ironmongery and a bit of charcoal, sulphur and saltpetre. To Muggles there is no question of hiding such a castle from plain view, like Hogwarts’ wards have hidden it for centuries, from Muggles and even from the Dark Lord at the height of his power. He wasted years on Hogwarts, trying to enter where he wasn’t welcome.

Even a wizard can never chart the Wizarding world with the same accuracy and stability as the Muggles can map theirs. How can one draw a web, a projection of overlapping streets and corridors, rooms within rooms within rooms, roads that change location and direction depending on the time of day or the traveller’s intentions? The best anyone, Muggle or wizard, can do at drawing the Wizarding world on a Muggle map, is to mark the gateways between the two.

“But it’s got to be on the map somewhere.”

When Harry says that, eyeing the atlas on my shelf, I can only reply: “It’s not. One can’t map a place that doesn’t exist.”

“What?” He blinks at me.

I take the atlas and open to a map of London; it’s not the most recent one but it’ll serve its purpose. “Show me Diagon Alley.”

In a while, he finds Charing Cross Road, the correct end of it, to my surprise. “Here, somewhere. That’s where we went to see the Leaky Cauldron; you know that as well as I do.”

“Ah. And where is Diagon Alley?”

“Behind the Leaky Cauldron, of course, straight past the entrance once you get in.” He draws a line cutting through the labyrinth of surrounding streets. “So through here.”

“Are you so sure?”

“Yeah, I guess. What’d you mean?”

“Why do you assume it goes straight?”

Harry blinks. “Where else can it go?”

“Up, or down, or into a fourth or fourteenth or forty-twelfth dimension; into the future or the past, or any of the directions off the map, or all of them at once. It doesn’t really matter. What matters is, for anyone who’d try to find Diagon Alley by this map, it will never exist at all.”

He is silent.

I flip the pages to the map of Britain. “Show me Hogwarts, Harry.”

“Err... I dunno. Somewhere in Scotland. You probably know where better than I do.”

“No,” I shake my head. “That’s the problem. I don’t. No one in the Wizarding World did either.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense! How did we all get in?”

“Because the castle itself let us in.”

*

“That can’t be right.”

“What isn’t?”

“Hogwarts might not be on the map but it’s there, in the woods! Ron and I flew from London right into the Whomping Willow in our second year.”

That would be the night I stayed up testing the wards, instead of going over my lesson plans, trying to determine just how impossible that particular trip should’ve been. I certainly remember that unfortunate incident. I spent the following night deciphering the Anglo-Saxon of the Founders’ notes on the wards of Hogwarts, on the Headmaster’s orders, just to have Albus flip through my futile research in the morning and mutter: “Harry is full of surprises, isn’t he? I suppose it doesn’t help that a flying Muggle car was a paradox the Founders didn’t consider warding against. Biscuit, Severus?”

“It seemed easy enough back then,” Harry shrugs. “It can’t’ve been impossible, or else how could I have done it?”

Ah, but he could. The same way he pulled the Philosopher’s Stone out of his pocket in first year. The same way he opened a chamber that had been a secret since Slytherin’s time: just by believing he could, just by having a bit of a chat with the locks, in Parseltongue. For the life of me, I can’t quite keep the nostalgia from my voice as I reply, “You always were good at achieving the impossible.” I sigh and add, “Let’s hope your luck doesn’t run out.”

“What’d you mean?”

“Haven’t you guessed yet?” I nod to his broom in the corner. “It’s up to you to lead me back to Hogwarts. You might be the only one still capable of getting us there.”

*

I follow Snape up the rusted fire escape ladders on the side of his building. They echo under his careful steps, higher and higher, onto the roof. I begin counting his footsteps but lose the count somewhere after seventy-eight.

Severus seems calm, I only see his grip on the broom turn white-knuckled as he climbs past the third floor, as if the broom was a steady railing. He doesn’t look down.

It’s beautiful up here. Flat roofs and roads and trees: as far as my eye can see all the way to where the sun rises, vibrating like a golden snitch. But I’m not here to look at the sun. Severus marches to the centre of the flat roof, testing my broom. He leaves it hovering by his side as he claws his hair into a hasty ponytail and ties it back out of the way. His face looks even harsher and more gaunt without all that hair covering it. His nose sticks out like an eagle’s beak.

“What is it?” he snaps.

“You look – _different_ – um… younger.”

He glares. “You don’t have to protect my delicate sensibilities. What was the rest of that? A _younger_ ugly sod, I assume.”

I never thought he was an ugly sod. I never expected him to care about his looks, either. He’s passable, really, when he isn’t about to bite someone’s head off. “No, that’d’be me, glasses and all. You’re the sod who likes me for some reason.”

“Impudent whelp. Who said I do?” He seems pleased though, as he swings his leg over the broomstick and holds on.

“How is it?”

“A bit unstable, but it’s the best we’ve got.” He glares pointedly at me. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“Get on!” He pats the broomstick in front of him.

Right. We’re going to find Hogwarts. Snape reckons I can do it. Maybe that’s all there is to it.

“Harry,” he’s been watching me as I dither, “don’t you want to?”

“I do. Really. But… d’you think this...” – _It isn’t like him. It’s risky and dangerous. When’d he ever agree to something like this? I must’ve rubbed off on him._ – “What if the broomstick stops working?”

“I fail to see why you would suddenly begin to worry about falling off a broom, especially in your state.”

“Git! S’not me I’m worried about!”

“Ah, I see. In that case, perhaps we should simply go home and forget about it.”

“Oi, are you mental? We can’t quit now! I have to do this. I owe it to everyone to get it right this time.”

“‘Owe?’”

“Yes! I fucked up once, now I’ve got to _fix it_!”

“No, you _don’t_!” he yells back, staring me straight in the eye, not giving an inch. “It’s not up to you to solve all the world’s problems. Any debt you think you had, was paid in full when you _died_. The Wizarding World doesn’t need saviours, and neither do I.”

His voice is stern, just like when he said: _Impetuous brat, did you have to interfere?_ “What _do_ you need from me then?”

The corners of his mouth curl. “Something I never even knew I wanted before.”

“What?” …Did he just chuckle?

“A ghost of my own. And I already have that. Ready?”

It doesn’t feel like leaving on the train to Reading or Surrey. It’s more like when Hagrid took me from the Dursleys and I knew I wouldn’t see Privet Drive again for a long time. The ground below is still dark but here on the roof, the sun’s already shining. Snape should hurry before someone spots him from the ground. My old invisibility cloak would’ve come in useful; too bad it was blown up with me.

When we’re high enough, I take in the view, just in case: the tangled web of streets, and far away, the Thames spanned with bridges, among them Waterloo Bridge and beside it the Eye. Somewhere below, Ginny will be waking soon, and Mrs. Weasley will catch the Tube to work at the Cheshire Cheese. Remus, Tonks, and Gabrielle will start a new day at the Leaky Cauldron, but by the time any of it happens Snape and I will already be gone. I don’t know what’ll happen to us, but I hope it’ll be good. I hope we’ll find Hogwarts waiting for us at the end of our journey.

He didn’t have to do this. Most people wouldn’t even consider inviting a ghost to share a broom. It’s not as though I can lose him. No matter where he goes, I’ll still find him – and not ‘cause I’m haunting him, but ‘cause he’s _Severus_: as obvious to me as the sun. I tighten my grip; my broom feels different from anything else I’ve touched. It feels like Hogwarts: something magic, real and warm, like an echo of Severus. Maybe it’s ‘cause the Firebolt’s always belonged to me, or ‘cause some of the happiest times in my life were when I flew with it. And that’s how I know that the Firebolt won’t fail us. It can’t, any more than my own arm could fail me. It’s part of me. Like Severus.


	10. The Tunnel

*

As soon as we lift off, I pull the broom’s nose up into a steep climb, making for the cover of the lowest edges of cloud. Wisps of fog reach down and enshroud us, dimming the dawn and shutting out all but glimpses of the land: spread below us like a patchwork quilt, more vivid than anything Molly Weasley could make.

“S’brilliant! Don’t you like it?” Harry balances on the very end of the broomstick, his hair and shirt streaming in the wind as though he’s been conjured out of the cloud.

Do I? I spent my second year chasing the Snitch, as the Slytherin Team played Quidditch around me. I remember, once, that elusive, shining weight of victory was almost in my grasp. Then Avery tackled me just before my hand could close on the Snitch, ending the game (and, in that case, losing it). I roared “Lemme go!” and spun, lashing Avery in the face with my hair. I’d grown it long over summer, and my newly-invented _Sectum_ charm had turned it into a concealed razorwire whip. Avery’s goggles saved his sight, but he still had to spend a night in the Hospital Wing with a faceful of dittany, and serve the bastard right! Those lazy, bludger-beaten sods deserved to lose, for letting Potter and his thugs get so many quaffles through the hoop.

Lucius was watching from the Quidditch stands; and later, in the Three Broomsticks, he laughed at Avery, as the Slytherin captain (still sporting healing cuts on his face) pointed at me and cried “_You_ are _off_ the team!”

“Now, Avery, I told you I’d find you someone who can _catch the Snitch_. If you care that much about playing _team_ sports, perhaps you should’ve Sorted into Hufflepuff.”

I loved Lucius fiercely for saying that. _I_ never gave a damn about trivia like the team or the score; how could I when there was _flying_ to be done? How the hell could they expect me to _slow down_ and just let the Snitch go? The game of Quidditch itself was always as dull as ditchwater to me. Flight was the only thing that mattered: the intoxication of speed, the tingle of the slipstream battering my body, the dizzying wrench of momentum trying to pull me off my broom. And above all, the thrill of the hunt. Outflying the Snitch was a challenge that absorbed me completely, until nothing else existed – no audience, no teammates, no opponents or bludgers – nothing but me and my quarry. Like an invisible thread connecting us, my sheer need to reach it drove my broom ever faster. Joy such as that, feral and fearless, the falcon must feel when it stoops upon its prey.

How carefree that boy was. It’s hard to believe he was me.

But now… everything has changed, and none of it for the better. Without warming charms, or even particularly warm clothes, I’m starting to shiver, and my hands already burn with cold. The slipstream scours my unshielded eyes, and this broom isn’t mine. I am old, a husk empty of all my magic, and this lamed, limping flight just makes me ache all the more for the fierce, falcon’s joy that I will never know again.

A crosswind buffets the broom and I clutch at it; my hands are already numb enough that I’m uncertain of my grip. I have no magic left, and there will be no cushioning charms between me and the ground.

Harry must’ve sensed my fear. “I know my broom. It won’t let you fall.”

“I hope you’re right. Where to now?”

Harry shakes his head. “I don’t remember!”

“Focus!” I hiss against the wind. “After all, you’ve already made this trip once!”

I have my coat, but I wish I’d taken something to shield my face when I walked out of my flat and my life with nothing but the absolute necessities: the broom, and Harry. The wind stings my eyes into watering, so much that I’m nearly blind. I try to remember that sight and hearing can only interfere, chaining me to the Muggle map of reality. Right now I have to convince myself that the impossible can happen, that Harry can lead me straight to Hogwarts.

“Easy for you to say. Ron drove! I was just watching the clouds.”

“Then watch the clouds!”

“Fine.” Harry, hovering in front of me, abruptly hops back on the broomstick. “This way, I think.”

“Could you be more specific?”

He gestures. “Right.”

I turn and let the broom pick up speed, my eyes slitted against the needle-like sting of the icy wind.

‘Second to the right, and straight on till morning,’ Peter Pan claimed was the road to Neverland. Harry is just as cryptic. For years I’ve felt that this is all Hogwarts will ever be, a fairytale for the next generation of children. But not if we find it, and we will. We have no other choice.

I surrender then and close my watering eyes completely. I have to trust Harry to lead me there. Hogwarts had always kept its doors open to those who believed, and no one believes in it more than Harry.

*

Flying for hours with my eyes more-or-less closed, on this rocking, swaying broomstick, through this thin, high-altitude air, is making me drowsy, lethargic. I find my grip on the present slipping; it’s better than losing my grip on the broomstick.

When I was very small, I made a kite once with Dad, and we took it out to the riverbank on a blustery day. The wind swept it up into the air and I doled out the string, letting it farther and farther out, till it was all the way over the other side of the river. Then the wind snapped the string and it sagged in my hand, dead. Freed, the kite leapt in the sky, soaring higher and higher until it was a dot, a mote, a pinprick as tiny as a daytime star. Until it was lost to sight.

At times it feels as though a similarly fraying thread connects Harry and I, and that soon I will be left behind on the ground, watching him soar higher and higher, loving him for his freedom, even as it takes him away from me forever.

“I’m lost again,” Harry yells, snapping me out of my half-frozen reverie.

But we are close, we have to be. Either that, or he’s been leading me in circles for hours and I’ve been freezing up here for nothing, and I don’t even want to think about that. “Does anything look familiar?” I rise up higher, taking a wide, sweeping turn through a bank of clouds.

“No. S’all the same, forest, valleys.”

“What about the train tracks?” He claimed he saw them a while back and that they looked familiar: that was what prompted us to sweep the area looking for other signs. Though I’m beginning to think that we’re no better than the Muggles who rush past the Leaky Cauldron without even knowing it exists.

“Left ‘em behind. Look, I’m not even sure they _were_ train tracks, much less the right ones. What’s the use in following them?”

“Can you find them again?”

“Maybe. Y’know, it was _so_ much easier the last time: we fell right on top of the Whomping Willow,” his hand swoops through the air, “WHAM! – and that was it!”

There’s one disadvantage in flying blind. I have to rely on a reckless imp who’s absolutely horrible at directions.

“That’s weird,” Harry mutters, “I know I saw ‘em! Somewhere ‘round here.” Below the land spreads like a map: simple and two-dimensional, uncomplicatedly Muggle. After a minute of his futile search, I decide to try something new. In response to some unspoken instinct I shut my eyes, and leave us at the mercy of the air currents, allowing the broom to follow their subtle lead. Throughout the flight I can’t help feeling that what I see below us seems quite different from what Harry describes, as if we’re travelling through two different worlds. Perhaps it is so. Either way, Harry is more likely to notice something than I. Whatever he sees, at least his eyes are untouched by the slipstream, and his mind unaffected by cold, thin air.

“Something’s there!” he points emphatically. “Right below. Look!”

I crane my neck and peer downward, following the line of his arm, and I can just make out a narrow line snaking through the meadows.

Lower and lower, we descend as the updraft from the ground catches us, warming my hands and face. The trees expand again, growing more distinct as they rise out of the lumpy green carpet they’d resembled from the heights. Their branches reach up toward us, then spread above us, and the twisting narrow path unfolds into a two track road.

“You said this was a railroad!” It couldn’t have possibly been. This is just a footpath weaving amid the hills and into the grassy meadows.

We are almost to the ground when Harry points again, “Told you it is. See the railway?”

I squint at the path with surprise but then I do see the subtle lines in the dirt. Harry was right about the train track, though it can’t possibly be the line that the Hogwarts Express used. No train can have passed here for decades. Mud and grasses have turned this route into a hiking trail rather than a railway. Yet something about this path feels like a new beginning.

“Close enough. We should continue on foot from now on.”

“But,” Harry protests, sliding off onto the path. “We’ll cover more ground on the broom!”

“Let’s try walking instead. Perhaps we’ll see more if we’re closer to the ground.”

*

We walk down the winding path, but the abandoned rail line continues as well, blending with mud and grass. It looks more like a two-track cycle path than something that trains once used. It’s not uncommon for abandoned railways to become footpaths in rural areas. Perhaps that’s what this is as well: built in the era of Victorian enterprise by wishful thinkers who thought it would remain here forever. Yet now, it’s been left to return to nature after the last train disappeared from the rails.

Where are we now? The hills to either side are dotted by a few crumbling buildings amid trees, but the road doesn’t dwindle further. Ever so slowly the cycle path becomes a rail line again. Forward and backward, the rusty rails mark the path we follow. Hills stretch to the left, occasionally a wooden fence snakes to the right of us.

“Great, innit?” Harry hops from one rusted railway track to the other. “Wandering about, looking for things. I was always jealous of all those explorers who got to sail looking for new places.”

_Gryffindor_. I can’t help smiling as I watch him, so exuberant, so alive in this sunlight and fresh air. “Can’t quite picture you as a sailor.”

He chuckles and closes one eye with his palm, glaring up at me. “‘Arrr, ‘ow long now till ‘ogwarts, Cap’n?’ How’s that?”

“Abysmal.” I roll my eyes, but I know I haven’t managed to hide my grin. “And as for ‘how long’,” I add, “it’ll take as long as it takes. Hours, minutes, days.” Time is relative.

We pass under a bridge, wood supported by rusted iron. The massive red brick pylons still hold, but their mortar is cracked by time and the roots of ivy, creeping like a green shroud. I can’t help but notice that this road is different from any road I’ve walked before. It changes as we move further down it, like a serpent shedding its skin, as if we’re travelling not in space but in time. Perhaps it’s just its nature, but maybe it’s the wards. Perhaps in time gone by, both Muggle trains and the Hogwarts Express passed underneath this bridge, their beat echoing in timber and brick, but now it’s all silent, forgotten. Haunted by the past.

Harry catches up and the place doesn’t seem haunted by strangers any longer. It’s time to move on, so we do, into the rising heat and sunlight and the distant, summer song of insects and birds: as hurried and alive as the earth itself, catching its breath in the humid air.

He frowns. “What d’you mean, minutes or days?”

“If the wards won’t let us in, we could walk for weeks and all we’d ever see is this road.”

“Yeah. Better hope the road likes us then.” he grins, ever the picture of ‘friendly’. Brat. “Maybe Hogsmeade’s just ‘round the corner?” he continues, glancing around, as if expecting the tracks at our feet to hear him. “Maybe we’re already in the Wizarding world and haven’t even realised it.”

I glance around. This turn around the hill is shadier than the rest. Trees block the view on both sides, their branches hanging low over the tracks. Ivy covers the rusted metal. No train has passed here in years, yet the tracks remain. I wonder what Muggles would see if they ever came to this place: an overgrown cycle path or the uncovered tracks. “I think we would have noticed something.” But perhaps we are close to the Wizarding World: on the outskirts, looking in. I wonder if anyone had seen the tracks to Hogsmeade after the Hogwarts Express stopped running, or if we will be the first since the day when so much came to an end.

Harry peers ahead. “Maybe we’re missing it. We should look around. What’s over there?”

“Don’t go too far,” I warn him.

“Why not?”

“If the correct railway is near, it’ll have perimeter wards. I for one don’t want to end up in the middle of the forest remembering an urgent appointment I never set up.” Or worse.

“Oh. Right.” Harry kicks at a pebble. It doesn’t move, of course, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “I like London streets better. At least there’re signs there.”

My glance strays from Harry’s pebble to my feet, and I notice that the tracks are less rusted than usual. In fact, they look almost new. When that realisation hits, I suddenly feel I can almost smell the creosote and coal smoke. “Maybe there are signs here too. Just not obvious ones.”

“Oi, what’s that?” Harry points ahead.

I squint against the sun. “I can’t see anything.”

“There!”

I follow the line of his pointing arm to a clearing just off the tracks. Half hidden by the shrubbery there’s a patch of stones with grass poking up between them. It doesn’t look familiar. “We probably followed the wrong track,” I sigh. I don’t remember the road branching off, but perhaps we should retrace our steps.

Harry grins. “No, I think we’re going the right way.” He waves at a metal rectangle, a sign lying face down in the mud. I lean down and turn it over, wipe off the moss and the dirt from the surface and only then read what it says. Some letters are destroyed beyond recognition, but still, it’s impossible not to fill them in right away.

‘HO SM ADE’ says the sign.

Impossible! But the impossible is yet to come. When I lift my head, it’s as though I’ve stepped into one of Harry’s dreamscapes. In the moment I looked down to read the sign, the entire surroundings have transformed. The platform of red brick has expanded until it’s five times longer, and there are now two railway tracks instead of one, and a path leading off the platform to the left. The ruin of an old brick station stands among the greenery. Swallows and house martins dart out from nests under its half-missing roof; they circle and swoop in the sky over my head, calling.

Unbelievable. The place is just as I remember it: abandoned, weathered by time and the elements, but still here. Hogsmeade Railroad Station.

“Let’s go!” Harry grins. “What are you waiting for?”

I follow him down the curving, narrow path around the station. At the next turn I expect ash and silence, and the white, hair-thin strands of rain, bringing with them the stench of burning bodies, but there is none of that; just as there is no spirit of Lucius, lurking among the ruins. Hogsmeade is sunny and green, almost idyllic. On both sides of the former road there are brick outlines in the grass. Only doorway arches and half-collapsed chimneys still stick up from the piles of rubble, like cemetery stones, indicating where the houses used to be. But there are also green fields covered in the tiny yellow suns of dandelion flowers and the white star-clusters of seed-heads, stretching all the way to the hill where the Shrieking Shack still stands. If ever a plant symbolised Gryffindor House, it’d be dandelions. Common weeds, they spring up anywhere, bringing colour to the darkest of places.

I look back at the forest of teetering chimneys and empty doorframes. A burial hill instead of Honeydukes; walls and chimneys like cemetery monuments, instead of Rosmerta’s pub.

Past the Shack, just off the high street and across those hills, there should be a path around the lake which leads to Hogwarts. The wards on that path _have_ to let us through. We didn’t come this far just to stop now.

We’re so close I can taste it.

*

I walk past the place where the last house on the high street used to be: where I saw Lucius for the last time. Instinctively, I reach out and touch what’s left of the wall; its remains only come up to my chest. Its bricks are warm.

Like an old nightmare, I leave it behind and follow the path into a wide open valley where the hills begin.

“Wait!” Harry calls out halfway up the hill. “You’re not going down there, are you?” He points at the ravine in front of us, his eyes wide.

“Yes. Is anything wrong?”

“It’s just, that’s where I died.” He wavers, then continues. “What if I’m still _there_?”

“You?”

“Yeah, or whatever’s left of me. I… I don’t want to see that.” He stops in the middle of the footpath.

This is the first time I’ve seen Harry afraid of anything in a very long time. With all the intensity I can project into my voice, I assure him, “_You_ are _here_, with me. If anything is left down there, it isn’t you any more.”

*

By the time I make it to the top of the hill at least a dozen burrs are stuck to my legs. Wildflowers and grass are wilting and drying in the sunlit fields, filling the air with a sweet, soothing scent. As we stand on the hilltop, I can see the ravine cutting through the land, and even bereft of magic as I am, I can feel it pulsing: rich with natural magical energy, its strength radiating from it like heat. Even the warmth of the hazy sun pales in comparison to it.

That ravine is wider than I remember, as if the earth itself has cracked along the leyline. Even standing here I can see at least three types of magical plant at the rim, where the wildflowers and poppies end, and the flitterblooms begin, weaving their tentacles into the ground. If so many magical species grow out at the edges of the ravine, then a highly concentrated magical ecosystem must flourish inside the steep fissure, and presumably the explosion epicentre gouged deep inside it. Even from here I can feel the magical force spilling like a river in the depths of the canyon.

“Look,” Harry points. “S’that a pixie? I thought they’d all gone!”

I’m not surprised in the least. Pixies and dragons, the largest and the smallest of magical creatures, were the most sensitive to magical energy disturbances. Yet pixie spores survive anything. They are attracted to natural flow of magic around this place, perhaps the strongest such flow left in Britain, if not the whole world. “You’ll find the magical world is more resilient than you’d think.” Wizards may be gone from it, but it goes on without us. But that’s what concerns me.

I look further, past the ravine, at the hawthorn trees and the meadows beyond. On the other side, the road to Hogwarts ought to continue, yet it does not. Instead there is nothing, not a trace of it remaining. Instead there is a completely unfamiliar landscape: as if someone spread a patched, soothing blanket of greenery over the old valley to mask its scars, to make it look new again. To make it look different.

Flocks of birds fly lazily amid trees splotched with red berries. The meadows are still, silent. Even the wind calms. It feels as though, apart from the birds, we are… _I_ am the only living thing for miles around.

Harry peers into the distance. “That’s wrong!” he cries. “We should see the lake, and the castle by now. Where are they?”

Hidden. Hidden from the sight of passers-by, unless they know exactly what they are looking for. Unless they are worthy to enter through the gates. Unless they are magical beings. I point at the edge of the ravine. “What concerns me more is that I can’t see the road continue on the other side.”

“What good would the road do?” Harry scowls, perhaps relieved that I’ve reconsidered my initial plan to descend into the ravine itself.

“It led us here, for one thing.” Slowly, I sit down on the grass, holding the broom in my grasp. Soft breeze ruffles my hair, stirs the grass all around us. We are so close, yet so far. We could be back in London for all the good this has done us.

“Well, can’t we just go on without it?” Harry suggests, “Fly around, like we did, see if we can find Hogwarts from the air?”

I stare at the landscape, so empty of the familiar signs. “Do you remember the first time you entered Hogwarts?”

“Yeah. We took the boats our first year. I liked them, much more than the thestral carriages.”

“Ah. And how far did you have to walk to the lake to get on those boats?”

“Wasn’t far,” he shrugs. “Just off the station.”

I gesture around, demonstrating my point. “Do you see a lake now?”

His eyes search the horizon without any luck. “It was there before!”

“Yes, as were the boats. And the carriages. Do you know why?”

He looks inquiringly at me as I meet his eyes.

“Because someone from Hogwarts sent them for you. But now there is no one left to send them.”

He frowns. “And that means Hogwarts is _gone_?”

Something I learned early on is that in the Wizarding World magic gets you everywhere: from one place to the other and back again. None of those places can be pinpointed on a map. Muggles are used to thinking linearly, but Wizarding space is anything but linear. Hogwarts itself is the best representation of that. One cannot Apparate there; to get in one has to enter through the front gates, if one can find them, or use the Floo, or a portkey.

“From our point of view, _yes_, that’s exactly what it means. Why do you think it took Riddle so long to enter the castle? He couldn’t just storm the gates. When Dumbledore raised the wards, as far as everyone outside them was concerned, the castle _ceased to exist_. Riddle spent months trying to break through those wards, because it was the only possible way he could get in.” I learned that when I was still a firstie, my nose stuck in _Hogwarts: A History_.

_‘But if the castle’s welcome you have not,  
In searching waste your life! All search will err,  
No magic, wit, nor might will find your road:  
It is as though the castle never were.’_

Harry sits down next to me, stretching his legs; his gaze is distant, still searching the far away valley.

“It was raining,” he murmurs. “That day. Dumbledore led me to the gates and told me I’d have to continue on my own from there. Told me not to look back, no matter what. I looked back anyway. Couldn’t see Hogwarts any more. I thought it was ‘cause of all the rain; it was pouring hard. ‘Cause how else could I have _lost_ Hogwarts? But it wasn’t the rain, was it?” He looks up at me. “He made the castle disappear.”

“He closed the wards after you; he couldn’t risk the Death Eaters getting in after you left.”

“He sent me out there, knowing I wouldn’t come back.” Harry’s expression is sombre; his voice is soft with shock at the idea that Hogwarts would ever close its doors to him.

_He deliberately sent you to your death, Harry. Yes._ The truth is so bitter it closes my throat. Dumbledore was such a great strategist, precisely because he had the intellect to choose his sacrifices well, and the courage – or coldness – to make sure those sacrifices were made. All I can do is nod in silence.

His expression cycles through a range of emotions. “Well, I _did_ come back!” he declares angrily, as if in challenge to the empty fields spreading before us. “I found Hogwarts somehow, after it was all over. After I _died_. And we _will_ find it again!”

This is the stubbornness that let him carry the expectations of the Wizarding World ever since he was a boy; I’m quite sure it’s the determination that let him return from death itself.

“How do we make it appear again?” he asks, that same undaunted spark in his eyes. As if there’s no question that it’ll be possible to do.

“We have to find a place where that road continues,” I tell Harry. It’s our only hope: a path from one place outside the wards to another place within could still get us back to the castle, in the same way that the railroad led us back to Hogsmeade. Otherwise we could spend years combing through the entire Forbidden Forest, searching for the lake or for Hogwarts, and find nothing. We could spend forever searching and still fail, if the wards won’t accept us.

“So we need a road that led into Hogwarts,” Harry mumbles, looking back to where the ruins of Hogsmeade lie behind us.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got your road,” he declares suddenly, and points to the Shrieking Shack, the only building still standing, ominous in the distance. “Will a tunnel work?”

I rise to my feet; dread rises in me too, at the mere sight of that place. I crush the fear down before it can take too firm a hold on me, and croak, “Let’s go.”

*

I’m not even halfway through the wildflower-covered field, and already my instincts are telling me to run. It’s hard not to listen to them, especially since my logic agrees.

A long shadow reaches out from the Shrieking Shack. I trudge on toward it, half-expecting devil’s snare under all the dandelions and the heather. It’s too bright for devil’s snare in the open field, but the Shack’s entrance is just dark enough. We must be cautious. Up the steps and through the threshold, with the door into the dark room swung wide open. Inside, the last rays of sunset stream through cracks in the boarded-up windows. A solitary dandelion stalk, pallid and stringy, pushes up through a hole in the floor. The stairway to the top floor has collapsed in the middle. Dry leaves have blown through the door, and are piled into a drift deep enough for several autumns. I step closer, and rats scatter from the pile. It must hide a rat nest.

“There’s a room with a hole in the floor,” Harry whispers.

I remember perfectly well, though I wish I didn’t.

“M’sorry,” he mutters, unexpectedly.

“What for?”

“For that Stunning spell. And for letting Sirius and Remus levitate you through the tunnel like that.”

I stare at the floor. Rat footprints crisscross the dirt on the boards, and mark the gnawed, slashed wallpaper.

Rats explain the collapsed stairway. The claw gouges on the floor are years old, but the rat tracks are fresh, this summer’s at least. Good. I’ll take rats over werewolves any day. The tracks lead into the next room through a doorway with its door fallen right off its rusted hinges; it looks like some adventurous rats have already explored the way. It reassures me slightly, as I enter a much darker room, full of dust and rotten wood. The hole leading down into the earth is still there, gaping like a freshly-dug grave.

I grip Harry’s broom tighter; it’s the only thing I have that even vaguely resembles a weapon. The tunnel is too narrow and curving to fly through, though I’m temped to try anyway, just so I won’t have to walk into the unknown. I could’ve brought a Muggle torch, but the batteries wouldn’t have worked outside the Muggle world anyway, and my matches won’t last long; I’ll need them later for the fireplaces. I check my pockets anyway – keys, a passcard to the London Underground – all useless now. There’s nothing that would help, and I know that I’m just delaying the inevitable.

“Are you afraid?”

No. I am… “Worried,” I admit, taking a deep breath. I thought I was over my fears, but this is my oldest recurring nightmare, slowly becoming real. Already my breathing and heart rate has picked up. I really should calm myself. For my own good.

Harry grins and sits down next to me, surprisingly patient. He goes through his pockets as well, matching my fumbling actions.

“Y’know, I never thought ghosts’d have anything in their pockets,” he informs me in a curiously calm, even tone. “Turns out I do. I carried loads of stuff back then, and now everything’s still here.”

He takes out a handful and opens his hand, showing me its contents, laying them down on the ground one by one. A transparent owl treat on a string, a broken quill, and a couple of Bertie Botts Beans. He checks his other pocket. A sweet wrapper, a pocket knife, a note, “Oi, not a cheat sheet! S’for Arithmancy, so I wouldn’t forget the assignment,” he explains after glancing at it and shoving it back: “Don’t look.” An owl feather twined with a long curly hair flutters out and completes his display.

I smile, looking at his hoard of bits and bobs. “Quite a collection.”

“Yeah. Too bad it’s all like I am. No one else can use or even hold them. Worthless, really.”

My breathing is back to normal. “You’re worth more than you think,” I murmur. He is worth the world to me.

“We should watch out for the Whomping Willow, outside,” he reminds me, “When we get there.” ‘When’, not ‘If’, I notice. For once I’m glad of his Gryffindor optimism, even though I can’t share it. “It’d be horrible to come all this way just for the Whomping Willow to knock you out. And you’ll need to keep away from locked doors and such; who knows what spells they’ll have. We should probably try to get into Hogwarts through one of the side doors rather than the main gates, just to be on the safe side.”

“We’ll have time to assess the situation when we reach the castle.”

He nods, scooping up all his ghostly coins and knickknacks, tucking them safely back in his pockets. “Ready?” He leans down over the entrance. “S’dark. Like looking into a tomb. Brrr!”

“Let’s just hope it doesn’t _become_ a tomb.”

“Could be worse; s’ not like there’ll be any werewolves this time around.” He throws up his hands, laughingly defensive, “Oi, relax, m’joking! C’mon, let’s go. Don’t worry, I can see in the dark.”

I rise and, after taking one last deep breath of fresh air, I follow him underground.

As the light of dusk dims over my head, I see that Harry glows like a faint phosphorus solution. He lights the floor and the walls enough to see the mossy stones an arm’s length away. His presence helps. I try to follow him as close as possible, as if he still is capable of reaching out and pulling me away from my nightmares just by taking my hand. He cannot save me from my fears so easily now, but the memory grants me a precious measure of calm.

He can’t pull me out of here, because this time it’s not just a dream. I remind myself that Remus Lupin is back in London, perhaps returning from the shops with Nymphadora ‘I kept my maiden name but might as well be Mrs. Lupin’ Tonks. He hasn’t transformed in years.

When’s the full moon? I asked myself that question for no other reason but to calm my insecurities. But I can’t remember. I should! I came too close to being torn apart by a werewolf to forget something like that.

Nonsense. What does it matter?

Perhaps it does. The tunnel is exactly as it has always appeared in my nightmares: night after horrific night, until the terror I felt of the monster has permeated every twist and turn of this place. I cannot help but loathe it: each hanging root, reaching damply to knot in my hair and slow me down; every mossy brick lining the floor, slimy and treacherous. My footsteps echo hollowly, before and behind me. The walls close in, leaving that black and gaping unknown all around me. It’s getting harder to breathe again. I lean against the wall. “Wait.”

“What is it?” Harry spins round, worried.

I shake my head. “Nothing.”

“You don’t look good. You’re pale.”

“So are you.” I should say something to him: it’d be the lesser of two evils, since it’s obvious he won’t let it go without some sort of explanation. “It’s not every day you get to revisit your nightmares in person.”

He gives an understanding nod. “It’s okay to be scared.”

Not in this case. “It’s irrational to be afraid of something that doesn’t exist any longer.”

“This place is real enough.”

He might be right. I nod, letting him win this argument.

He turns the corner once again, completely unafraid. Being a ghost has only enhanced his impetuous Gryffindor recklessness, and why not? What does a ghost have to fear from the world of the living? I hurry to follow him, unwilling to be left without any light – without seeing him – for even a second. I grip the broom to my chest. Strangely it reminds me of the reality of this place. Not a dream, though dreams do come true after all, it turns out, just not the right ones.

“Almost there,” Harry assures me, “That’s it. That’s the way out.”

The tunnel narrows and curves up. I have to get on my hands and knees in order to go any further, because the ceiling is so low to the ground, it isn’t high enough for a house elf much less a human. A final turn and instead of the earthy slope my hand finds a wall with no exit in sight. The tunnel must’ve caved in before the entrance. I push up hoping to break through the layers of dirt above me but they do not move. Of course, just my luck! We are so close and yet so far, but I won’t be stopped today. This stale, musty air just makes me all the more desperate for the open air, the air of Hogwarts, that must be just above us.

“Hang on,” Harry says. “Maybe I can find out where it’s thinnest.”

Before I can stop him, he disappears into the soil, leaving me in complete darkness. Staring, blind, the darkness heavy in my chest as I inhale it, I edge all the way up to the highest part of the end of the tunnel. It reminds me that there is a way out of this place. I won’t be buried alive here. I _won’t_.

Something squeaks far away, back the way we came.

“Harry?” I shout; the earth around me muffles all noise.

I might’ve heard a faint “Just a minute,” somewhere aboveground. What is he _doing_ out there? Abandoning me? But now, I can definitely hear something else. In the other direction. Down the tunnel. There’s definitely a scrabbling sound, and then the sound of feet, far away – closer now – breaking into a run.

I _know_ that sound.

“HURRY!”

No answer.

I claw at the soil, then hurl myself with all my strength against the hard-packed earth knotted with slimy roots, but nothing moves. Is Harry still up there? Frantic, I yell for him again, then listen.

Silence. There’s no sound of running feet any more either. It wasn’t real; it couldn’t have been. It was just my ruined nerves acting up. I closed my eyes somewhere in my senseless panic. I open them, even though I can’t see a thing. This narrow space is stifling, I have to crawl back down for just for a second and take in a deep breath.

A fetid gust of breath hits my face and a hungry growl sounds an inch from my nose.

My heart lurches and I swing at the beast with the broom handle, then lunge up into the narrow space, clawing at the soil, digging through it with the broom handle, hoping against hope it’ll either provide a way out or collapse altogether, burying my attacker with it. Lupin wasn’t the only monster in the world. Something else is about to eat me alive and even Harry can’t help me now. _Fuck!_ I never thought I’d die like this! Nightmares _do_ come true and the ground _still_ doesn’t move! It never will, I know that already. Another second and then those jaws will tear into me and the agony will start.

“Stop it! Severus!”

Past my frantic breathing, and the attack about to happen, someone yells. It’s not me. Harry?

_“Riddikulus!”_

That spell, futile on Harry’s lips, snaps me out of my panic. Or perhaps it’s Harry, as he charges straight through me, his glow revealing the snarl of a ravening werewolf.

*Crack!* I see no monster anymore, just a copy of myself, stepping out of the shadows, gaunt and tall and indifferent.

“Foolish ghost, this addiction of yours must come to an end, even you must see that.”

Is that how my voice sounds to others? That cold and contemptuous drone?

“Don’t say that.” Harry’s eyes are huge and stunned, and he folds in on himself, small and frail and unexpectedly trembling. “You aren’t real.”

Stunned, half buried under the dirt, I watch myself emerge from the shadows, looming over Harry like a Dementor. “Neither are you.” it drawls, disinterested.

“You aren’t my Severus!”

“How could I ever be _your_ Severus? I don’t love you.”

“That’s a _lie_!” Harry’s desperate cry resonates from the tunnel walls. “_Riddikulus!_”

Is that what Harry’s afraid of? Me?

I sneer at the Boggart’s version of myself. “Is that the _best_ you can do? Pathetic! That’ll never happen, and Harry knows it!” He does, doesn’t he? I look at Harry. Relief floods his face.

Somehow that gives me a new burst of strength and I stab upward with the broom one last time, pushing and shoving. Something breaks in a burst of white pain and a groan of shearing fibres: a bone? No, the broom: it fractures into two, its shards sharp in my hands. It doesn’t matter just then, because when I pull the shards back, a ray of light follows them: as fine as the line between life and death. I keep on digging, one half of the broomstick in each hand, shoving chunks of dirt aside as they fall all around me, spitting up dust, but not caring at all because just there, above me there’s fresh air and a field and no Boggart can overcome the sheer wild joy born at the sight of it. In the silence, I hear Harry’s sudden, frantic laughter. For the very first time it sounds deliberate and forced. And then I laugh too, because no Boggart can withstand that. I laugh hoarsely, and just as desperately as Harry; because I have no strength to weep for the ruin of the Firebolt, I laugh in relief that I am alive; and I laugh in irony, because I have come all this way, only to almost give in to a blasted Boggart. But most of all, I laugh to dispel Harry’s worst fear. _I don’t love you._ The one thing I’ll never say. Harry _must_ know that.

At last I struggle out from under the layers of dirt and tangled roots, just like a vampire digging his way out of the grave for the first time. In an irony that a lifetime’s interest in the Dark Arts has left me supremely suited to appreciate, I note that I’m holding a sharp wooden stake in each fist: the remains of the broomstick.

The Boggart hasn’t dared to follow.

“Um,” Harry says tentatively. “I found out why the tunnel collapsed. The Willow…” he shrugs, “…look!”

I turn, ready to dive for cover if needed from the deadly branches, but my embarrassingly belated care is useless. Next to us lies a carcass of a tree, a trunk toppled and dry, its hollow limbs rotting on the ground. In the mud caked around the gnarled roots, the rat tracks continue on and disappear into the grass. Looks like one rat has dug out an escape path, and so have we.

The waning moon breaks out of the clouds; its light glistens on lake, and I can make out the dark line of the Forbidden Forest stretching ahead of us, and in its gloom, the outline of Hagrid’s hut is just visible.

Harry gasps. I turn, and there, past the dried Whomping Willow …

… lies nothing but _ruins_, in the place where Hogwarts used to be.

“NO!” Harry screams, piercing and loud. “That wasn’t there!” He runs a short way on into the field before his momentum fails him and he crumples to his knees.

Moonlight spills onto the silent black lake and the Forbidden Forest: they look much the same as ever they did. But when I turn my gaze back toward Hogwarts, the castle ruins are still there, nearly flattened to the ground. Only the foundations still remain amid piles of rubble. “It’s not real! It’s not Hogwarts! I saw Hogwarts! Right THERE! It wasn’t LIKE that!” Harry cries, looking back at me as if he expects me to bring the castle back to life, perhaps with a wave of my lost wand. In front of him, the ruined halls and towers loom: abandoned, emptied of hope.

What happened here? Did the Death Eaters reach the castle after all? Or perhaps Dumbledore sensed the danger, the beginning of the end, and took down the enchantments – all the way down, down to the foundations – sending the towers crashing down onto the end of an era, letting Hogwarts fall rather than letting it fall into the wrong hands. We’ll never know for certain, but one thing is horrifyingly clear: this desolation is what Harry haunted all those years. He was so convinced that this ruin was the castle he remembered, that Hogwarts manifested itself in his dreamscapes.

I walk up to him, using the broken broomstick to prop up a body whose bones feel less solid than that shattered wood; it’s surprising I have enough strength left to move at all. I try to ignore the burn slowly eating its way through my chest. Because of it, I cannot walk up the hill more than a couple of weak steps at a time.

It can’t just end here. But the ruins are old, overgrown: they’ve been abandoned for years, just like Hogsmeade, and it’s too late to do anything. All is lost. The last hope of the Wizarding World never existed, beyond the dreams of a dead man.

“I SAW it!” Harry cries, hysterical. “You’ve got to believe me! Hogwarts was real!”

Yes, his dreamscapes were always real enough to him. And because he believed so desperately that his home remained intact, Hogwarts became real, just for a while. Just for him.

“I didn’t make it up. Do you think I did?”

The burn in my chest is stronger, and there is no use denying the truth. There is no cure waiting for me at Hogwarts. There is no Hogwarts left.

For one bright day Harry let me believe in a happy ending, and I am thankful to him for that. I’m not angry, not even disappointed. I just wish I could comfort him now. Before it’s too late.

“Shh,” I murmur. “I believe that you believe.”

“That’s… It’s not enough! I saw it, all right? I know Hogwarts is real! I lived in it! I’m not crazy!”

“I never thought for a moment that you were.”

He points. “That’s Hagrid’s grave over there, past his cabin. Mrs. Norris liked to sit there in the sun and that was the only time Fang wouldn’t chase her. I can’t have dreamed it all!” He’s frantic. I wish I could calm him.

He pants, on the verge of tears or screaming, ripping his glasses off and dropping his head into his hands, pressing his palms over his eyes. “I… I don’t want to look again. I keep thinking it’ll be just like it was again, any moment now.” He scrubs his eyes and sticks his glasses back on, blinking blearily. “It won’t be, though, will it?”

“No,” I sigh. “It won’t.”

He stares at the pieces of broomstick in my hands.

“I broke your Firebolt. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not that. How’re we going to get back? Not by Floo.” Disappointment rings in his voice.

_About that…_ “I always suspected it would be a one way trip.”

“What?” He blinks.

“I have something to confess. Sit down.” I take a deep breath. _Please, let him forgive me in time._ I check the contents of my pocket. The phial is still there. I take it out.

“What’s that for?”

“There’s something I need you to do.”

He nods. “Go on.”

“Ignis Alba is used for cremation.” I hurry to get the words out before he can bombard me with questions, “One day I’d like you to break this over my body.”

He looks stunned. “Wait! Are you serious?”

“I’ve seen you move objects, Harry. It’s small. You only need to lift it high enough and drop it on the ground.”

Slowly, very slowly he adjusts his glasses and looks up. “You’re really strange at times. Are you going to carry that phial with you for the next hundred years?” I don’t answer. His face sobers up. “And will you stop talking as if you’re going to die tomorrow? You’re _not_! Who am I going to haunt if you do?”

“I haven’t been entirely honest with you. Sit.”

“I don’t need to sit!”

“Harry, listen. I don’t have much TIME!”

A completely stunned look stops me from yelling again. “Is this a test?” he asks quietly. “Or a joke? It isn’t funny!”

“It isn’t meant to be funny. It’s the truth.”

“If this is about Hogwarts, we’ll find a way…”

“It’s got nothing to do with Hogwarts!” I pant for a moment, continue in lower tones, “It’s my scar.”

He frowns, remembering. “That time you collapsed in Diagon Alley: was it the scar too?”

“It’s a heart condition. It’s getting worse.”

“But y-you can fix this, right? There’s got to be a way!”

Suddenly, even taking my next breath is a challenge. “There isn’t.”

Utter horror wrings his expression. As if he’s facing a Boggart, only this time the Boggart is me. “Take that back,” he says weakly. “You’re going to be just fine! We’ll fix it _somehow_.”

“I can’t.” I reach out: how I _wish_ I could hold him, just this once, in the waking world. “I’m so sorry, Harry.”

*

I lean back against the willow’s dry trunk, and look up into a sky now cleared of clouds. Twilight dies down behind the ruins.

“Y’know, when you told us in first year that you could teach us to bottle death, for a while there I really believed you,” Harry says softly against my shoulder. “Even took notes. Nothing’s s’posed to happen to you, not for a hundred years or more. It’s not fair.” He drops his head and rubs his face against his sleeve. “Don’t look at me.”

I look anyway, even though he doesn’t want me to. “It’s all right.”

“No it’s _not_. I’m like this and you’re the one who should be a nervous wreck.”

“I expected to die seven years ago; I’m used to the idea by now.”

“Aren’t you afraid?”

I shake my head.

“It’s OK to be afraid sometimes,” he confides, “I was, a bit.”

“It’s inevitable, one way or the other. I’ve learned not to waste time worrying about things I can’t change.”

“I should’ve guessed sooner. Maybe then I could’ve done something.”

“Don’t blame yourself.”

“I’m not. It’s nobody’s fault. That’s why it’s so terrible.”

“Shh. It’s not terrible.”

“Course it is! I don’t know what to do. I always do, and now I haven’t got a fucking clue what to do next!”

“Well, first, I’m going to try and fall asleep. If that’s the end, I should very much like to hold you, as long as possible.” Before it’s too late.

“Everything ends at Hogwarts then,” Harry whispers, and this is exactly how I’d like to meet that end, with Harry’s arms around me, in a brief, nearly perfect moment. If I have to die, I’d like to leave this world satisfied, because everything I wished for in life came true. Harry settles down next to me, and we sit in silence: two travellers who have finally reached the end of the world and have nowhere else to go.

“What’s that one?” He points at the darkening sky and I whisper the names of the stars to him as they brighten above us: Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, Polaris.

“And that?” he squints, blurry-eyed, and points low at the horizon at a winking dot in Orion’s belt.

“An airplane.”

He snorts, and together we watch the flickering Muggle-made star travel across the sky from Andromeda to Lyra, and finally disappear, as the rest of the stars grow dim in my sight.

*

I’m in what looks like Harry’s dormitory bed, judging by the red curtains drawn closed around all sides. Harry’s curled up in the centre of the bed, the wand beside him glowing with a faint _Lumos_.

I pull him to me and hold on tight, until the _Lumos_ fades and all I hear in the darkness is his strained, uneven breathing. The weight of his head pressing into my shoulder eases, but I can feel the flicker of his eyelashes: wet and warm.

“How long left?”

I hide my face in his hair, revelling in its silky warmth. How good would it be if I never had to lift my head again. “Days. If I’m lucky.” As soon as he moves, pulling away from me, I wish I hadn’t said that. I don’t tell him that it’s a rather optimistic estimate.

“It was easier when I hated you. I can’t hate you now.” He sniffs and I can feel the bed move as he begins to rock slowly back and forth.

“I’ve got you.” My arms slide around his shoulders, supporting them as they begin to hitch.

“I just found this. I don’t ever want to give you up.”

“Just let it go,” I murmur.

“M’not going to cry! Or accept it. It’s not fair!”

“Life isn’t. You can’t control this.”

“Maybe I can! I control everything else in here. It’s _my_ dream, and I’m _not_ going to let you go!”

I know that’s not how it works, and almost certainly, so does he. But I don’t tell him what he already knows: the terrible truth that dreams – tantalising and wonderful though they are – can never be real. I’ve had to be cruel so many times in my life, for the best of reasons, but I can’t be cruel anymore, not now. Not to Harry. So instead I lean forward until my forehead’s resting against his, and I husk, hoarse through a tight throat, “Then _don’t_ let go! I don’t want you to.” It’s as if I’m breathing in his desperation with the warmth of his breath; suddenly I’m fierce with determination, to have this, to give him this. One last time. “Do whatever you want, as long as it’s with me. Enthral me, taunt me, tease me…” I lean that little bit closer, breathe the last words against his lips, “Haunt me.”

“Hold me.” he gasps into my mouth, immediate as an echo.

I wrap my arms around him, warm and tight. My fingers glide over the rigid planes of his back and shoulders, and I knead his tense muscles. His hands slide up my sides and dig into my back. His breath is sobbing, uneven, hot against my neck.

“Harder!” he cries, in a strange, strained voice.

Any harder and I’ll hurt him. I pull him as close as I can and hold on anyway. I whisper to him – things I don’t even comprehend myself – and stroke his skin until he stops shaking and the tension ebbs slowly from him. Finally he rests his forehead on my shoulder and takes a deep breath, going heavy and still against me.

The worst has passed.

I inhale slow and deep, drunk on the scent and the touch and the warmth and the sheer living reality of him. “What would happen in a dream, if someone made you lose your focus? Would everything disappear?”

“Dunno.” He tilts his head, leaving so much more skin for me to explore; it draws me inevitably closer. “Never tried it deliberately. I s’pose the dream would end.”

“In that case,” I let my hands wander teasingly underneath his shirt, across his abdomen and up his chest. “You should concentrate,” I murmur against his lips, and run my hands over his chest, down the line where his collarbones meet. “I want this to last.”

“Right,” he gasps, “Good idea.” His hands reach for my belt. His mouth finds mine.

It’s not enough time – it’ll never be enough – but for now, time stands still.

*

For first admittance into Hogwarts’ wards,  
A single way all travellers must take:  
All must entrust themselves to waters dark,  
And voyage there across the castle’s lake.

_These are the secret ways that run_

Then once your maiden voyage is complete,  
The ways to enter in will multiply:  
If Hogwarts grants you leave, you then may pass  
On Thestral’s wings, or on a broom may fly.

_More eastward than the rising sun;_

If those within will light for you a hearth,  
You’ll reach the castle rapidly by Floo.  
You may arrive more slowly via boat,  
But only if that boat was sent for you.

_To wizard eyes alone are shewn_

Or else, if those arrangements don’t appeal,  
More stylish travel plans can then be hatched:  
By horseless carriage you may be conveyed,  
If first a carriage for you was dispatched.

_More westward than the setting moon;_

You need not even stay above the ground;  
Avail yourself of tunnels in the earth,  
To exit Hogwarts’ grounds and then return,  
As long as in those grounds your mine had birth.

_Such paths may only wizards know_

But if the castle’s welcome you have not,  
In searching waste your life! All search will err,  
No magic, wit, nor might will find your road:  
It is as though the castle never were.

_Beyond all roads where Muggles go._

* * *

The tracks to Hogsmeade are inspired by the following article about a road to [Wharram Percy, a deserted medieval village in Yorkshire.](http://www.yorkstories.co.uk/yorkshire_walks/wharram_walk.htm)

The poem is by the multitalented [**sinick**](http://sinick.livejournal.com/) who managed to turn my early ideas into something that made much more sense.


	11. Broken Glass

*

It’s dark, and just beyond the range of my hearing there are cries: of joy or pain or anger, I can’t quite tell. Yet here I am, in complete silence, staring into a single marble of methylene blue.

I’m alone. Where is Harry?

Is this a dream? If it is, it doesn’t feel like one of his. Where am I? The last thing I remember is Harry, cradled in my arms, breathing into my shoulder, holding on so gently and so desperately for what seemed like eternity. The next moment I’m here.

“Time, Severus.” The thought is soft and alien and comfortingly, disconcertingly sweet. Like Dumbledore’s Legilimency used to feel.

“What do you mean, time?”

“You wanted time to stand still. Here it is. Perfectly at rest. Yours forever, if you want it. Just reach out your hand and take it.” I gaze into the marble until I can’t tell if it’s spinning or the world around it refuses to stand still, until I begin seeing things in its depths. The evening sky clear of clouds, the most profound and luminous blue; and beneath it the Garden, with its stars of hemlock blossom mirroring the starry skies: a sanctuary where the nightingale sings all night long.

So quiet and dark and calm. It’s everything I always dreamed about, when my books and my bottles and my memories weren’t enough to make me want to face another day. It’s waiting for me, calling to the depths of my solitary soul: the home I never had.

But now, I have a home. Not Hogwarts; in that sense, it doesn’t matter that Hogwarts is gone. My home is with Harry: wherever he goes. As much as I’ve longed for the Garden in the past, Harry is more important to me now than redemption or rest.

“I don’t want peace.” Not eternity, not a second. Because every second of this peace would mean another second of Harry grieving. That’s too high a price to pay for leaving this world quietly in my sleep. My time will come, but not yet. Not quite yet. Let there be another morning, at least. If I wake to see it, I will fight for life until my final breath: to stay with him, for as long as I can.

How my heart aches. Is this truly the end?

The marble falls like a teardrop right in the middle of my palm. It explodes into a billion starry shards and everything goes white.

*

“Professor. Professor Snape! Is you well?” inquires a whiny, high-pitched voice.

“Shh! Let him sleep.”

_Harry?_ For a second I think I’m at Hogwarts, then I open my eyes. It’s daylight. My neck is stiff. I’m leaning against the fallen tree. At my feet, two green, whip-like branches stretch from the dry trunk of the Whomping Willow. One slaps its neighbour; it slaps back, and the branches start going at it like two agitated boxers.

The ruins of Hogwarts still loom in the distance, a painful reminder of our failure. A house elf is leaning over me, and I recoil. Are there more of them around?

“It’s all right,” Harry says, “Dobby’s a friend.”

I take a second look at the elf. I remember ‘Dobby’, so different now from the wide-eyed scared creatures watching my every move at the Manor. “We’ve met,” I grumble and leave it at that. He seems harmless and there are no other elves nearby. What I dismissed last night as the ruin of Hagrid’s hut isn’t a ruin after all. Lopsided, but supported by several tree trunks on one side, it has an overgrown pumpkin patch and a clothesline covered with small shirts, bright as naval flags. The clothesline stretches all the way to the nearest tree of the Forbidden Forest, as if the hut is anchored to the Forest, sheltering in its lee from the winds and the weather.

“So Dobby and Winky decided to see the world…” My attention returns to the elf as he continues to talk to Harry. “Went to Diagon Alley, didn’t like it there. Too much noise, too many elves. Feathers and feathers,” the elf waves his arms over his ears, “not a single old-fashioned hat or a sock. Not a place to raise the little ones. Dobby and Winky decided to come back to Hogwarts last year. It’s quiet and good for a garden. You should see the size of Winky’s carrots!”

“Wait, wait. You’ve got _children_?” Harry’s eyebrows rise past his spectacles.

Along with Winky’s carrots, apparently, though the images that thought leaves in my mind aren’t any better.

“Yes.” The elf nods proudly. “Dobby and Winky are a family now, with three little ones.”

“_Three_?”

“Yes. Dobby can’t believe it either! The oldest one’s Harry,” Dobby gives a gaping, frog-like grin. “And the second one’s Wheezy, like Harry’s friend. And this one’s Minny, like Mistress Minerva.”

“Which one?” Harry blinks.

“She is shy,” Dobby chirps apologetically and snaps his fingers. With a flash, a smaller figure appears next to him. A huge-eyed elf with pink bows over her twitching ears is holding onto his knee. She’s a toddler by house elf standards, and no prettier than a human child would be at that age. With her other arm, she clutches a stuffed grey cat with ears just as large as Dobby’s. Both the elf girl and her toy have dandelions twined around their necks.

“Uhm, hi there!” Harry grins. “Are the other two invisible as well?”

Minny gives him an unblinking, cat-like stare: just as skeptical as it is stern.

“They were right here…” Dobby looks back and frowns. “Probably playing hide-and-seek at the Castle again. She likes them.”

We both glance at the ruins. They look as empty as they did last night.

“Not _that_ face of her,” Dobby dismisses the ruins with a wave of a hand. “Stubborn thing’s been hiding ever since you came. She did that to the little ones too, till last summer and all was good and quiet, but since she liked them and showed, Dobby’s had no peace. All those rooms to look through to find the little ones.”

_What is he implying?_

“What’s _hiding_?” Harry echoes.

“Hogwarts is. Too many rooms. All empty and dusty. Minny got lost there once. It took Winky and Dobby hours to find Minny.” He glares sternly at the child. “Is Minny going to do that again?”

The child hiccups, wide-eyed.

“Thought so,” Dobby nods, satisfied.

The realization finally sinks in past my shock. _Hogwarts is still there!_ Hidden from our sight, but still waiting for us past another circle of enchantments. Albus, old manipulator that he was, must’ve commanded the castle to raise every last ward, like a hedgehog tucking itself up and bristling out every quill. Hogwarts, intact! If this is true, I won’t rest until I touch those walls with my own hands! But if it turns out to be a joke, I’ll use said hands to strangle that elf!

I have to wet dry lips with my tongue before I croak, “Can you… take us into the Castle?”

Dobby nods. “You’ll have to take a boat, like all the first-years. Or all you’ll see of her is ruins. She’s not used to visitors anymore.”

A boat? Could this be as easy as taking a boat across the lake? “How soon can we be there?” I look at Harry and I’m certain he’s thinking the same thing. The elf had better be telling the truth: if I keel over from all this excitement, at least let the cure be close at hand!

*

But far from keeling over, as we start walking toward the lake I find I’m actually feeling much better this morning, well enough to walk without catching my breath every two steps. It’s a gift I’m not about to waste.

Dobby’s ‘boat’ hardly merits the name: it’s simply a raft tied together with vines, barely large enough for two house elves, much less a human.

I step gingerly onto it after Dobby, moving with care to avoid a cold lakewater bath. Harry hops on right next to me, as careless as I was cautious, and slides his arms around my waist. His proximity might’ve been explained away by lack of space, but this embrace is deliberate. It’s the first time he’s been so demonstrative when someone else could see him. I watch Dobby for any sign of reaction.

Dobby just nods, “Ready?” and pushes away from the shore. The raft begins sliding through the thin reeds and the lily pads, further and further away from land, until the shore is just a dark line, obscured by the chilly coils of morning mist which rise from the lake surface all around us, until we cannot see Hogwarts at all.

The homemade oars splash rhythmically. The lake’s surface is so calm and smooth I can see my own face in it, as well as Harry’s next to me. I’m not sure whether the reflection is Harry’s doing or whether the lake’s magic makes it easier to reflect a ghost. Either way, it feels strangely right to see Harry’s face next to mine in the water.

“How long will it take?” Harry asks Dobby. “We’re out far enough, aren’t we?”

“Not yet.” Dobby’s long ears twitch. “Castle’s stubborn.”

“Do you remember?” Harry whispers in my ear.

“Remember what?”

“The first time you saw Hogwarts. Did you come on a boat too?”

“Yes.” I nod. Everyone comes on a boat. It’s part of the ritual, the introduction of a new inhabitant into the castle.

“It was dark. There were loads of stars, twice as many, ‘cause they were reflected in the lake. And then I looked up and some of those stars weren’t stars at all, but the castle windows. That’s how I remember it for the first time.”

“Look,” Dobby cries, pointing with a crooked finger, “Over there!”

And then we can see the dark peaks of the castle towers, rising silently from the mist.

Harry’s expression is radiant with awe, afire with delight, as though he’s been given the best present ever, and in a way he was: he is home again. I can’t help holding my breath at the wonder of it, just as I did the first time so many years ago, faced with the same momentous sight. My whole body tingles with gooseflesh and my throat is tight as I blink dampness from my eyelashes. _This_ is what pure magic feels like. I never thought I’d feel this way again.

The castle rises out of the fog and gains form and detail: solid and tall, magnificent from every paving stone to every skyward-reaching spire. Harry’s Hogwarts. Real at last, growing closer and closer, until finally the raft touches the shore.

As I disembark Harry takes off running, faster and faster, irrepressible with sheer joy: all angled, sharp elbows and knees, as eager and careless as a firstie. Halfway up the hill he looks back at me, as if checking to see I’m all right. I nod and wave him onward, and I follow him as fast as I dare, up the hill and to the main gates. I think I should be capable of going faster. I _am_ capable. So I do. It feels like nothing can go wrong: not here, not now, not when we’ve finally found what we’re looking for.

*

There are owls as far as the eye can see. Hundreds and hundreds of them; I wouldn’t want to be the poor rodent having to sneak past their watch. They cover the castle watch towers, the battlements and windowsills, the nearby trees.

I walk up the steps, not quite believing my eyes. It’s as though I’ve gone back in time, stepping through these doors for the first time as a student, and then as a teacher. Harry was right after all. He’s found his Hogwarts at last, and it’s real and it’s whole and we’re here!

The doors of the main entrance are ajar, leaving a gap just enough for a house elf to slip through. The rusted locking mechanisms gape like jagged teeth in a half-open mouth. I lean my shoulder to a door and push, and it opens wider with a grating screech.

In the light falling through the dusty stained glass windows and the doorway, I see Harry by the hourglasses. He sticks his hand through one of them. I should’ve known it would be the one that belonged to his House.

I can’t resist. “Five points from Gryffindor.”

I don’t expect it to work, but five gemstones float from the bottom of the hourglass to the top. Harry jumps, startled, staring in disbelief at each ruby as it rises through his palm. How fascinating; of all things, the House points spell is still keyed to my voice! If only the rest could be that simple. But I know better: I set the wards on my dungeon living quarters myself, tuning them to recognise my magical signature instead of my appearance, since there were too many students willing to try Polyjuice, and any password might be guessed or overheard. But enough of that: I don’t want to spoil Harry’s excitement with my caution, past and present. “Well, as long as points can still be taken from _Gryffindor_,” I drawl teasingly, “I suppose this crazy idea of yours about restoring this school might work after all.”

Harry snorts. “Give ‘em back!”

“I don’t think so. A _thousand_ points from Gry…”

“HEY!”

I smirk at Harry’s shocked glare. “You’ve got _no_ idea how many times I’ve wanted to say that.”

He frowns at me, then turns that look on the hourglass holding emeralds, and the serpent statue coiled on top. He reaches through the glass and seizes one of the gems in his translucent fist. His whole face is intense with concentration and it takes an obvious effort, but he just manages to lift the emerald to the top sphere. He gives me a smug look and reaches for another stone. “There. Are you sure you want to continue?”

The serpent glares and hisses. Harry jumps back. The serpent slithers forward, curling around the hourglass as if it’s a precious nest of eggs.

“Fine, if you’re going to be like that,” Harry mumbles and concludes with a sibilant hiss.

The silver snake hisses back, looking ready to strike if Harry were any closer.

Something rustles at the front door. “HARRY!” Dobby yells.

Harry jumps, startled, but Dobby looks past him eyeing the silent corridors. “You better not have taken your brother into the dungeons AGAIN!” he yells down one corridor, setting off broken echoes all over the entrance hall.

_My_ Harry gives me a sheepish glance. “I reckon I ought to help him find my namesake.”

“All right,” I nod. “We should try the towers.” I imagine someone as short as a young house elf would appreciate the view from the top.

“Um, actually can you wait here for a bit?” Harry mumbles. “Don’t go anywhere; in fact, don’t move away from the hourglasses.”

I arch an eyebrow.

“There are wards and… things all over. I don’t want you hexed, or worse. Magic’s dangerous, y’know. Some of the portraits like to steal people into the picture, the doorknobs bite fingers off, the tapestries are a perfect place for Boggarts, and I don’t even want to think about what Peeves has been up to all these years!”

“Mister Potter, don’t you think I of all people would know what kind of magic Hogwarts contains?”

“Please, stay. I need to… I’ll be right back.” He disappears after Dobby before I can say another word.

_To hell with Peeves, what’s Harry up to?_

It doesn’t matter. There’s something I have to do alone. I wait until the voices in the corridor fade into the distance, and then I turn to the nearest stairway and head for the dungeons.

*

I avoid the suit of armour in the corridor to the left – it used to like to take a swing at passers-by – and step around a narrow rug with a very short temper. I might not dare to venture into the kitchens or the library without backup, but Filch’s rooms should be safe. The rusted, plain padlock hangs loose. I slip inside the musty cupboard-like space, burning matches until I find a candle sitting on the desk among years’ worth of items Filch confiscated from the students. Quick Quotes Quills, and Smoking Wands, and even a flying carpet rolled up in the corner. A long, narrow box with bright wrapping catches my eye. Ah, and those, of course. I slip the narrow box into my pocket, and then finally I find what I came here for: Filch’s set of keys to all of Hogwarts’ doors, hanging off the arm of his chair. While others used their wands to unlock the entrances and pass into the warded rooms, these keys were the only way Filch could get around the entire castle.

I take the heavy ring of keys along with the candle, and continue on my way down.

The keys unlock the hidden stairway which leads into the dungeon corridor. It’s dark and stale, almost like a crypt. Portraits who haven’t seen light in years glare blearily at me as I pass by. There shouldn’t be any hidden surprises in this part of the castle, and if any of the portraits decide to trap me on their canvas… well, spending eternity as a portrait wouldn’t be any worse than the fate I fear, and at least that way Harry would always be nearby. Nevertheless, I stay close to the centre of the corridor, avoiding the tapestries and the hag statue in the corner.

It’s a familiar path. I always used it on my way down from Dumbledore’s office, after reporting to him from Death Eater meetings. It was the fastest way back to my rooms, and it hid my exhaustion from the prying eyes of students and teachers alike. That privacy was worth a few stumbles on stairs made shadowy and treacherous by my weakened _Lumos_.

Now, my single flickering candle’s no brighter than my exhaustion-sapped _Lumos_ used to be. If I hadn’t memorised these turns long ago, I’d probably be reluctant to go this far into the heart of the abandoned castle. Who knows what horrors the dungeons might house now?

I frown inwardly, wrestling with the pessimism of a lifetime, knowing that making myself anxious without cause is doing my health no good. _After all_, I ask myself determinedly, _how bad can it really be? Harry’s haunted this place for years._

The thought of him gives me the strength to carry on, descending step by step into the main part of the dungeons, where the potions classrooms are located.

My candle is almost burnt out. I grab a nearby torch out of its holder. It’s covered with dry dust, which crackles and sputters out acrid, clinging smoke. Then the torch itself flares to life, lighting the passageway and the open door of the classroom. Did I ward it the last time I left? There’s only one way to find out. I take a deep breath and step inside.

Nothing happens as I cross the threshold. Broken glass crunches viciously under my feet. The floor is littered with shards and dried puddles: this mess is all that remains of bottles and jars of now-priceless ingredients. _Damnation!_ Such is the fate of everything left unattended for years in a castle with a poltergeist. I just hope the single bit of glass I need has survived.

I search the chaos on the shelves. The potion should be there, right where I left it: third rack from the door, fifth shelf down, a narrow phial with an inconspicuous label. _Please, let it be intact!_

It’s the right shelf, I know it is, but it’s empty. I reach out, unwilling to believe my eyes: my hands falter across the dusty, barren plain of wood, but still the potion I need isn’t there. On the floor below the shelf is a pathetic little pile of glass, shattered as thoroughly as my hope. It’s the most literally heart-rending thing I’ve ever seen.

I don’t know how long I spend staring at it numbly; I don’t even have the strength left to be properly horrified.

_It’s over. There’s nothing else I can do._

I leave, unwilling to spend another moment in this place. I have to find Harry.

*

By the entrance to the dungeons, I can hear the sounds of a scuffle and random shouts.

“But we’re careful, and Peeves said a giant WORM lives in the bathroom…”

“You two know better than to listen to Peeves.”

“But Da-ad...”

“What did your mum tell you? Peeves is trouble.”

“But Peeves said the worm turned people into ROCKS!”

“Yeah, Dad. Can we go look for people-rocks? Can we?”

Dobby rolls up the sleeves of his knitted jumper and gives two long-nosed, skinny brats in matching red capes a menacing glare. Then he reaches out and yanks both boys by their twitching ears, pushing their heads forward. “Home. March!”

He pokes his head through the door on his way out. “Dobby will be back,” he says, with a long suffering sigh. “Without children.”

“Was that one of them _people_?” the smaller boy whispers excitedly behind his back. “Did the worm get him yet? OW! What was that for?”

The door slams, leaving Harry and I alone.

“Where’ve you been?” he asks, “I was worried.”

There are no words, so I just shake my head. It’s too late for worry. Too late for anything. Certainly too late for me.

“I, um, got something for you,” he smiles. “It’s a surprise.”

He points at the steps. And there, a single phial stands. The phial I was looking for: the one I’d given up as broken!

“Y’said last night that you had potions here at Hogwarts that could help. I couldn’t get it myself but I asked Dobby, so he went through your Potions stores and all the cupboards…” Harry goes on talking but I’m too overwhelmed by the shock of joy to pay attention.

There’s no question I could mistake that phial for anything else: I brewed and and filled and stoppered it myself, years ago, for the seventh-years’ Apparation lessons. I never imagined I could be so delighted to see a standard Desplinching Decoction. I can feel myself gaping at it like a slack-jawed idiot, but I don’t know what to say. To think that I spent all that time looking for this potion, only to have Harry find it first! “Harry…”

“I know it’s too late to know for certain. But it’s there and it wouldn’t hurt you to drink it, would it? And maybe it’ll cure you.”

I nod to him. _Yes, it still might_. I reach for the phial with shaking hands, unstopper it, sniff carefully, shrug, and drain it to the last drop. Nothing that tastes so bitter and stale should be so damn welcome.

Harry watches me intently. “How’d you feel?”

The potion leaves a slight burn in my chest. I roll up my sleeve to examine the circular scar above my elbow, and it’s the same white, ropy line as always. There’s no sign of change yet, but I hope to see some effect in the next six hours. “Tolerable,” I tell him. “Actually I’ve felt better since this morning. _Thank you_.”

He beams and steps closer, pressing his forehead against my jaw. The familiar gesture brings up the image of last night, vivid and clear, and my mind supplies the scent of his hair and the warm feel of his skin from a recent memory. “For everything,” I add, in near whisper.

His eyes shine.

*

Afternoon sun lights up the entire owlery. The tower has been left too long to the elements; there are holes in the roof and cracks in the walls. The floor is covered with layers of droppings, pellets and moulted feathers. The bones of rodents and small birds line the corners. Perhaps the rat from the Shrieking Shack didn’t make it far after all. Something small and silver glistens among the bones: I didn’t even realise that owls hoarded treasures like crows.

“Shh, don’t come any closer,” Harry whispers.

A majestic snowy owl is nesting in one of the window frames. Three owlets peek out from under her wings.

“Is it really you, girl? Look at you, you came home at last.”

The owl doesn’t turn her head when Harry speaks, but her entire posture is wary and tense. She senses something.

“She can’t see me,” Harry sighs. “I tried everything already.”

The tracking spells for post owls, connecting them to their owners, must’ve disappeared when our magic slowly drained into the Earth. The owls are simply birds now, just like any others in the forest. She has changed, just as I have.

The magnificent bird croons softly to her owlets. I stay in the doorway, in the shadows, unwilling to disturb them. Harry stands with me, watching her.

“Yeah, that’s definitely her,” Harry grins. “She’s probably all wild now, like the others.”

The owl looks around and snaps her beak in warning at the shadows I am hiding in.

“Come away,” Harry glances back sadly. “She’s protecting them.”

“Hedwig was her name, wasn’t it?” I glance over my shoulder at him.

“Yeah, like the saint. She always watched over me,” he whispers when we’re through the doors. “She was a good bird.”

“She _is_ spectacular. Give her time, she’ll recognise you again.”

“Y’really think so?”

“I know so. You’re too damned stubborn not to be noticed for long.” I remind him in tones wry with experience.

He leads me down the staircase and then, suddenly leans over and places one solemn kiss on my cheek. My skin tingles with the now-familiar frisson of his energy.

“What’s that for?”

“Nothing – just ‘cause. _Thanks_.”

*

Hogwarts! The classrooms and the commons and the stairways and even our Gryffindor hourglass: it’s all here down to the last ruby. It’s so bloody _good_ to be back!

The lion statue is sprawled across the top of the hourglass, sound asleep and snoring in a quiet, growly tone. The rubies are still bright behind the dusty glass. We sure lost a lot of House points that final year, but I can’t really care. It feels brilliant: coming home after a long, tiring journey and finding things exactly as I left them. Well, almost, ‘cept for the things that won’t ever be the same again.

I still can’t believe Hedwig didn’t notice me. Come to think of it, Mrs. Norris never did either. The portraits ignored me, but I think that’s ‘cause Peeves put them up to it.

Oi, what’s that? It felt like someone… touched me?

I look up. The golden lion on top of the hourglass yawns and stretches lazily. He paws my hair again. I bat his paw away, but my hands go through it and I overbalance and nearly fall right through the hourglass.

Severus chuckles as he watches, from where he’s leaning on another hourglass. Trust him to pick the one with the emeralds, Slytherin sod.

I glare up at the lion. Damn cat had better learn to keep his paws to himself. “Oi, stop laughing!” I tell Severus.

“Who’s laughing? You really do have a vivid imagination.” Severus hmphs and looks down. He always does that, so his hair falls forward and curtains his face. I saw him do the exact same thing when he was young, in his memories. Somehow it’s comforting to see that. Since he’s kept that habit for so long, it means it’s true.

“Oh, come on. I already saw you smile.”

“Saw what?” He gives me a sour look, his mouth tense and his cheeks even more caved in than usual.

I just bet that he’s biting the insides of his cheeks to keep from smiling. Who does he think he’s gonna fool with that? “I know you can. Even if you pretend all the time that your mouth doesn’t stretch that way.”

There’s a quirk at the corner of his mouth and a warm drawl, “You really are an impertinent scamp, you know that, don’t you?”

“How come you only do that when no one’s looking?”

He smiles, really smiles, just for a moment. “Do what?”

“That.”

“Well. It’s not as if it’s an aesthetic experience.” And there goes the hair again.

“What’s that s’posed to mean?”

He gives me a dubious look. _What? I meant it! Though I reckon it was the wrong thing to say_. “Don’t be absurd,” he drawls. “I have teeth like an earthquake in a cemetery; even a face like mine isn’t improved by making a display of them.” His upper lip curls like he’s about to bite.

“Um. I hadn’t noticed.”

He stares at me. “How could you _possibly_ not…”

“Paranoid git! Why would I be looking at your teeth? I was looking at your eyes.” It’s like talking to Buckbeak, trying to persuade him you respect him. I reckon Severus can be every bit as bitey as a hippogriff, sometimes. Well, mostly. And then, other times he smiles, like this. Close-mouthed, lopsided, and hesitant, but this time he doesn’t try to hide it. His hand twitches, and it’s as if he wanted to lift it to my face but forgot he can’t touch me. I move closer anyway. Just in case that’s what he wanted.

His eyes widen and he looks almost lost. Like it’s not me he’s looking at, but a door: the dark, shiny door of Malfoy Manor back when he was still a student. Never thought I’d be so glad to be in a door’s place, especially Malfoy Manor, but it’s wonderful. I don’t want it to stop.

“I like it when you smile, it’s brilliant.”

His look is strangely warm as slowly, tentatively he leans in, until we’re forehead-to-forehead. It’s a marvellous sight. It’s better than flying. “Brilliant?” he rumbles, “You’re the one who shines.”

*

Harry moves on a little ahead of me, eager, energetic: in the dark corridor his opalescent form glows like a beacon.

He isn’t looking, so I quickly shove up my sleeve and examine the scar on my arm in the light of a window. The scar isn’t a circle any more: the outer part of it has thinned and disappeared. My arm feels a bit numb. The potion is working! I look closer. There’s a thin dark line of bruising left behind instead of the scar. That’s not supposed to happen.

I pull back my collar to examine my shoulder. The scar’s begun to grow thinner, but there’s a similar dark ring of bruising all around the area. Damn it! The potion’s supposed to erase the scar completely and replace it with healthy tissue. There’s no question I brewed and sealed it correctly, of course. Still, I’ve never stored Desplinching Decoction for as long as this before using it.

I flex my arm. Well, my arm still works and the numbness has almost faded: apparently the potion’s worked just fine with my extremities. I really should stop worrying; it does me no good. All the same, I can’t help but remember that bruising, and wonder what’ll happen when the healing process reaches the centre of my chest. I suppose there is nothing more to do but wait and see what happens.

“I believe your potion has had some effect,” I admit to Harry.

“And you doubted?” he grins. “Course it has. ‘Cause it’s _your_ potion! You’ll be fine.”

*

“A surprise? What is it?” Harry bounces next to me, all around me, like a kneazle after a rogue Snitch.

I take a deep breath, and lean back against the stair rail. My chest feels numb. It can only mean one of two things, and I refuse to think that the end might be near. There will be good things ahead, so why wait for the scar to be gone to enjoy them? I’d rather have it all, now.

“Are you all right?”

I nod. “Fine. And it wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you.”

“Oi! Let me see it at least.”

“Patience.” I reach into my pocket for the matches, and take the first narrow cylinder out of the box from Filch’s office. The Grand Staircase is as good a place as any to set off fireworks, as the infamous Weasley twins have already demonstrated once. This time, it’ll even have a secondary purpose; it’ll give all the bats a scare and wake up the snoring portraits.

Harry’s eyes light up as bright as the fireworks, as the first explosion blooms amid the frozen staircases.

*

Fireworks! For me! They’re just like I remembered and so much _better_! All these green and red and yellow and brilliantly noisy explosions all over. A shining red dragon snakes through the hallway, bouncing off the walls, burning off the old dusty spider webs and scaring the bats. A fountain of firework snitches is next, whizzing and swarming in the air all around the silent stairways.

“Brilliant!”

“Yes.” Severus smiles at me; he’s leaning casually against the railing of the staircase, just a few steps up from the floor. He lights another fuse and throws the firework into the air: with a howl it explodes into a field of golden blooms with silver bees buzzing from flower to flower. It’s magic, of a very happy and human kind, brought to life and given back to the castle. This is Hogwarts, waking up again after all these years. Amazing! So beautiful! It's great that Severus is here to see it with me. When the deafening clapping and whistling fades I hear something else, much quieter. The box of matches falls with a brittle wooden rattle, from Severus’ lax hand.

“Severus?”

He’s slumped against the railing, slowly collapsing.

It takes me a second to reach him. “What is it?” He’s so pale.

“I…” he gasps. “I think it’s time.”

_Time? NO! He took the potion! It was working!_

“Listen, I don’t want you alone… find Granger…” he coughs, “or Lupin.”

_No! NO! This isn’t happening!_ “Dobby. DOBBY!”

“Live! Don’t believe anyone… says you’re not real.”

“Don’t! You’ll get through this, you will!”

“I’m… I… Harry…”

“Hang on, you’ll be fine. Just don’t talk like you’re… Severus? SEVERUS?” _Oh God!_ “Say something!”

He isn’t moving and I can’t feel his heartbeat any more, is he… No, no, it’s all right. It’s got to be. I’ve got to stay calm. It’s _not_ over. Even if he… he’s… even if he’s died, that doesn’t mean he’s _gone_. He’ll be back, just like I was. We’ll stay at Hogwarts and years from now everyone’ll be back and he can even teach, like Binns. Everyone’ll help: Remus, Hermione, Ginny. Everyone’ll be happy again and we’ll be happy together. Severus and me.

“Severus?” Where is he? Is he still here? Will he be a ghost, like me? The hall is empty, there’s no one on the stairways. “Are you here?”

Everything’s so empty. It’s getting colder. Freezing. _No!_ He can’t have left me here! Please, not this! I don’t want to be alone!

_“Come back! Please! SEVERUS!!!”_


	12. Birthday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not bad for a ghost story that started with a 100 word drabble, is it? I'll be quick here, because I suspect the final chapter will speak for itself. To everyone who followed Price this far - thank you for your patience, your support, and your words. Happy reading. - Acid

It’s hard to remember. I don’t want to, but I have to.

It was real, and I can’t forget what’s real. It’s hard enough to keep track of dreams. I don’t want to dream: everything’s all right in dreams, and things aren’t all right. I want to remember _him_, the real Severus. Not someone I imagined.

The night in his flat, that was real. And our dreams were real too. Half of what we shared together was dreams, but I don’t ever want to think that we never lived them. We did. I have to stop; I can’t go on like this anymore, wondering.

No. I have to think about it. I have to remember. Focus. Think!

The fireworks died down. He fell. It took two tries to break the Ignis Alba ampoule, and then it exploded and burned. There were ashes… there are still ashes. Only they scattered all over when the storm blew through the broken windows. I reckon with the next storm they’ll all be gone: flying on the wind instead of lying on Hogwarts’ floor.

It’s not right; he doesn’t even have a tombstone. I should’ve done something, left a mark while I still had the chance. His name: I could’ve traced ‘Severus’ in the ashes.

I thought he’d be with me after it was all over. Ghosts are supposed to guide the dead, but I never even saw him. I’m not angry at him for dying, he couldn’t help it. But why didn’t he take me with him?

I wish I could die again. I don’t want to be a ghost anymore. How can I stop being one?

How can I stop being?

*

  
Stop, please! I want it all to stop.

_So stop it. Open the door._

Severus? Is that you?

_Who else would it be in this damn tunnel: Lupin perhaps?_

I don’t know. I remember you leaving.

_Foolish boy, I never left._

Really?

_Yes. Open that door._

I can’t. It’s locked.

_You’re a wizard: you can do anything you want to do._

Y’mean I’m magic?

_Yes, you are magic, Harry. Now use it!_

I’m trying, I… Severus?

*

  
Severus, are you still there?

Were you ever there?

*

  
Severus, where are you?

*

  
I still remember. I must always remember what happened.

I keep hearing voices. It’s not good to hear them. Hermione said so in our second year.

I can’t move things around. Last thing I moved, well, I lifted it high, all the way past the staircases to the top and then it broke and burned and Severus was gone.

Why did he leave me? I wish he could take me with him.

All those times I complained about the chill in his flat, it’s nothing compared to how cold Hogwarts is now. Is this what happens to ghosts when they disappear? They freeze to death _after_ death. Is that what will happen to me?

I don’t like downstairs. That’s where he was when it happened. Gryffindor Tower’s far from there, so that’s where I stay.

How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Years? Doesn’t matter.

Nothing matters now. There’s a broom cupboard upstairs that’s quiet and dark. Every time I pass it by, I want to crawl inside and wait forever, until he opens the door and lets me out and everything’ll be all right again. But nothing’ll ever be all right, ‘cause he’s _gone_, and that’s the only thing that stops me from slipping in through that door and never coming out.

I want him so badly I can taste it, like tears. How am I supposed to go on like this? It can’t have been that long, but I miss him already, so much.

Is this how it’s going to be from now on? I don’t want to live like this! I don’t want to exist at all.

There are so many things I didn’t get to say. I’ll never get to say them now. I wish I’d said them when I had the chance.

*

  
_Along the draughty corridors, for miles and miles, she goes…_

Severus?

_She often catches cold, poor thing, it’s cold there, when it blows…_

Where are you?

_The question is, where are you?_

I’m here. Alone. Waiting.

_What are you waiting for?_

I don’t know. For things to change. For someone to open this door. For you.

_You’re in the cupboard again._

Yes.

_You know you can’t stay there forever._

Help me!

_I can’t. You’re on your own now._

NO!

*

  
Don’t leave me alone!

“Harry?”

“Severus?” Are you there?

“Harry? Is that you?”

“What d’you suppose happened to him?”

“I don’t know, dear.”

*

  
I still hear voices…

*

  
“It can’t be him!”

“Harry? Are you all right?”

“Where’s Snape? That’s what I want to know.”

“Severus? Why would he even be here?”

“Someone had to light the fireplaces. You’re not trying to tell me Harry did, are you? Besides, how d’you explain the note?”

“Harry, who kept the fireplaces lit?”

I don’t know. I didn’t. And Severus didn’t. But he asked… “Dobby.”

“Did he say Dobby? Who’s Dobby?”

“That’s what I thought, can’t make it out.”

“Then where’s Snape?”

“Harry, tell us, where is Severus?”

“Where’s he going?”

“Forget where, what happened? What did the git do to make him like _that? _”

“Now, dear, don’t jump to conclusions…”

“Should we follow him?”

“You can’t catch a ghost, Remus.”

“What do you propose we do, wait another week till he shows up again in another corridor?”

“Harry, wait!”

“Harry!”

*

  
“Is there anything Dobby can do to help?”

“Yes, explain this.”

“The potion Dobby found for Professor Snape didn’t work, and Harry Potter so hoped it would. But it didn’t. And now Professor Snape is gone. Dobby is so very sorry.”

*

  
“I’d better get back.”

“How is it?”

“Bad. No news on Russell Square. The Underground’s closed. How’s Harry?”

“Same. Saw him in Gryffindor Tower today.”

“Hermione finally got through on her mobile. She said she’ll be at the Leaky Cauldron as soon as the Tube starts running again.”

“Good. She’ll know what to do. Dora?”

“Yes?”

“Be safe.”

“I will. You too.”

*

  
When Nymphadora Tonks first rang and said that Remus managed to Floo to Hogwarts, I didn’t dare believe her.

Then they told me they saw Harry’s ghost there, but Harry didn’t look or act like himself at all. I wished I could believe they were lying. It couldn’t be right. It must’ve been a mistake.

But when I heard Snape’s flat was empty, I started to worry. My worries grew when Tonks mentioned that her nephew, Draco Malfoy, had contacted her for the first time ever, at a loss about Snape’s whereabouts.

And then a miracle happened: Remus said that the Floo was working again. Hogwarts! I couldn’t believe my eyes. The Floo took Remus and me past the wards and to the very heart of the Wizarding world: our school, that I’d never expected to see again. The castle wasn’t the same as it used to be, but the place I remembered growing up was there nonetheless, underneath all the cobwebs and dust. Walking through those halls, hearing my footsteps echo from the stone ceilings, I finally started to believe again. That Hogwarts was there, listening. That it wouldn’t harm me, even if I didn’t have magic anymore. That it was waiting for us.

Neville and Tonks both agreed it was a terrible danger to return, channelling Mad-Eye’s ‘constant vigilance’, but Remus and I knew better. The truth is, once we saw Hogwarts – all its potential and all that magic which survived for so long – we simply couldn’t leave. We just couldn’t abandon it forever, not again.

There was also Harry, in the stairway to our old Gryffindor common room. He didn’t respond at all when we called out. For the very first time, I watched his _ghost_ float away. It made me realise how much he _wasn’t_ a ghost before. He was always so lively; he talked and acted just like the Harry I knew. Not anymore. Now, hollow-eyed, pallid and sickly, indifferent to my cries, he truly was just a shadow of the man he was before, drifting away without even noticing us.

What happened to him to turn him into this listless, whispering, barely-there creature? What happened to Snape?

I followed Harry upstairs, and found him huddled in the window sill of the boys’ dormitory, his head bowed and his knees clutched up to his chest, bony and still. He looked so much like the firstie I met in the Hogwarts Express.

“I told him… to live not hide… backing away… he owed it…”

His lips were moving, but I had to get as close as I could just to hear his whispers: his voice was so quiet it was as though I was hearing him across a great distance.

“Do I owe him the same then? I don’t… I can’t… just… it’s hopeless…”

I reached out, though I felt as if I might scare him away like a wild bird. It was like reaching for Harry hidden under his invisibility cloak. My closest childhood friend still had to be there, hidden away.

“I couldn’t save him.” he whispers, “Just one man and I couldn’t save him. From a stupid little accident we used to heal with a wave of a wand!”

“Shhh, it’s all right.”

You’d think ghosts can’t cry, unless they’re Moaning Myrtle. But I saw the tears in his eyes, and I knew they were real.

Just like Remus and Tonks did before me, I asked him the question no one knew the answer to yet. “What happened?”

His eyes were so empty. “Help me.”

“How?”

“I don’t want to owe him to live. No matter how I try, it hurts to live, and I want him back. I want to be with him.” He stared, finally at me instead of through me. “He’s gone,” he said, and then he was Harry again, just for a while.

*

  
I mustn’t let Harry see me cry. I’m his only hope. I can cry later. Soon I’ll go home, away from Hogwarts and London, back to Reading where I’ll see Neville again, and then I’ll cry. Now I have to be strong, for both of us, Harry and myself.

His hair seems paler. It’s hard to tell with ghosts anyway, but now more than ever it seems that the strands around his face have gone grey.

When I Floo to Hogwarts the second time from the Leaky Cauldron fireplace, I have a better idea of where to look for him.

We glimpse him often – climbing the dark staircases and drifting through the empty hallways – but to catch more than those glimpses, we have to go to Gryffindor Tower. That’s his usual place. It takes an effort to get his attention, but when I call out his name a few times it brings him out of his stupor. Then he seems almost normal, if only for a while.

“Hermione,” he sighs, “Why can’t I follow the dead?”

“I don’t know. I’m not an expert, but I never heard that it’s possible.”

“It must be possible, or the other ghosts’d all still be here. I didn’t even get to say goodbye to him. He’s gone and I’m stuck here. _Help_ me! Please!”

I tell him the truth, and it doesn’t hurt any less. “I can’t. I am so sorry.”

*

  
That weekend I go home, and hold onto Neville and he holds onto me. It makes things just a little better. Neville always does.

“It’s like he asked me to kill him with my own two hands.” That’s what an exorcism would be! At least to Harry. “I can’t do it! He has no right!”

Neville smells of mint and chamomile. It’s peaceful. It’s home.

I tell him everything: how Harry’s all alone back at the castle, how he refuses to go anywhere or to speak to anyone for days. I tell him about Harry’s empty eyes and how he shivers sitting out in his windowsill despite all the sunlight and summer air. He says he’s freezing there.

It’s like a part of Harry – the part that was still so _alive_ – died along with Snape. I want that Harry back. What did Snape have that we don’t?

I have to see him again tomorrow. Neville knows better than to try and talk me out of it. “Please, be careful,” he says. “Watch out for the wards.” And that’s all.

“You should come with me next time,” I tell him.

He nods. “Perhaps I will. Soon. What sort of state were the greenhouses in?”

*

  
Most of the tube stations are back to normal after the explosions. The Circle Line’s not functioning, and they’re still rebuilding King’s Cross and Russell Square, but most of it’s back to the way it was. We’re survivors. We’ll get through anything and so will London.

I saw a homeless man at the station today while I was waiting for the rain to pass. It was strange, but he reminded me so much of Headmaster Dumbledore. There was something about his eyes. He asked me if I was afraid of the storm. I smiled and gave him my spare change. He told me to be brave, that the worst of the storm was over. And then he picked out a marble – he had a handful of them – and gave it to me in exchange for the money. Only when I got outside, I saw that in the daylight the marble wasn’t black like I’d thought, it was dark red with a yellow swirl in the centre.

I looked for that old man on my way back, but he wasn’t there.

*

  
My exam results are in. It’s a miracle. I don’t know how, but I did it. I’m a lawyer.

*

  
“After all those times I thought he was a heartless git, it was his heart that was bad and I couldn’t fix it.”

We’re sitting on a staircase which froze mid-turn seven years ago, and never connected to its destination. Harry’s feet hang off the edge. There’s a floor somewhere in the shadows beneath us, two storeys below. Harry stares down, as if contemplating whether to jump off into the dark.

I put my hand as close to him as I can.

He reaches out, his fingertips almost passing through mine. There’s a faint, wistful smile on his lips. “Wish ghosts could touch people. I miss that.”

“Me too. I can’t offer a hug, but I can always listen.”

“When I first showed up in his flat, I wanted to fix the world. Turns out I’d trade the world to fix one person.” He looks off into the distance. “Is that selfish?”

“It’s not selfish. It’s human.”

“It still hurts. So much.”

“I know.”

“Does it ever get any easier?”

I think back to Ron, to everything. “No.” It really doesn’t. “But you learn to live with it.”

“Y’think I still can?”

“You can try. That’s what counts.”

There’s a trace of a smile on his face. “He told me to live. ‘Cause if I believe it, then I am alive.”

“He was right, you know.”

“Reckon he was.” Harry nods at the half-full box of Filibuster Fireworks on the staircase. “We should set the rest of these off. Got any matches?”

Tonks gave me some. Even though Dobby and Winky promised to keep an eye on the fires, we’ve all taken to carrying either a box of matches or a lighter during our daily trips to Hogwarts, in case the Floo fireplaces go out or we find an unlit one.

I haven’t even told Molly and Ginny yet. I must ring them later. The twins will have a heart attack. It’s unbelievable, really; we have Hogwarts back! Just like before.

*

  
Hermione’s about to leave. I walk her to the fireplace in the Great Hall, past our old Gryffindor table. “Thanks for the fireworks. It’s quiet when you’re all gone,” I confess. “And cold.” The chill settles in as soon as everyone leaves.

“You don’t have to stay here all the time.” She looks like she’s about to lunge and hug me, if she could. She’s had that look a lot recently. “You can come with us.”

“I don’t want to go back. Not just yet.”

She looks up. Her lips are in a thin line. “He isn’t coming back.”

I know that! “If I leave, that means I’ve given up completely. I’m not ready to give up just yet.” I don’t think I ever will be.

“Just promise you’ll let me know if Hogwarts gets too lonely.”

“Yeah.” Severus brought me here. Lonely and cold it may be, but it’s my home. The only one I have.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” Hermione says. “As soon as I can.”

She looks like she’s about to stay and spend the night here with me, so I smile and wave toward the fireplace. “Go on. I’ll still be here in the morning.”

She takes the plastic bag of Floo powder out of her purse and refills it from the jar on the mantel. “Wait,” she says, “I completely forgot.” There’s an envelope in her hands, white and plain – no name or address on it. “I’m supposed to leave this here.”

“What’s that?” I peek over her shoulder.

“It’s…” she runs her hand through her hair and continues, quick and soft. “Malfoy gave it to me. Said to put it here, at Snape’s, uhm, where he died.”

“I’ll show you.” It strikes me then: I’m the only one who knows. Without me, they wouldn’t even have a clue about where he died. And so I lead her to the patch of burned stone at the foot of the grand staircase.

*

  
The envelope Hermione leaves isn’t sealed.

I’m not curious at all. Who cares what the letter says! I’ll never have enough strength to move the envelope, much less do anything else to it.

I try to ignore it, but no matter what I do, it’s still there: goading me and taunting me, just by existing. Just like Malfoy always did. And after a while I can’t help rising to the challenge.

I spend most of the night next to the letter and in the morning, I’m able to turn it around and unwrap it enough to read the writing inside. It’s girly and the ‘S’s and ‘L’s curve like serpents.

> _Hi, Severus,
> 
> It’s daft to write to you now, after you’re already gone, but you said to write you a letter, and I keep my promises. I still can’t quite imagine how you made it back to Hogwarts. How did you even find the place? I suppose you took your secret with you to the grave; a Slytherin to the end.
> 
> It’ll be difficult, knowing I can’t look forward to one of your rare visits. I hope you are at peace, and if you see Mum and Dad, tell them I’m doing all right.
> 
> I promise you one thing: Luc will know who you are to me, and who you were to his grandfather. And the best thing of all is, I can tell him all sorts of embarrassing stories about you now, and you won’t be there to stop me.
> 
> I lied, it’s not really the best. But at least I’m trying to find something good in this.
> 
> I will miss you.
> 
> Draco
> 
> _

  
After I finish reading, I want to break something or crawl into a deep, dark corner and never come out. I don’t want Severus to be remembered with Lucius Malfoy, I want him to be remembered with me. Instead, I avoid any cupboards or broom closets and climb higher and higher, away from temptation.

It gets a bit better after the sun comes up. By then I’m calm. I’m not even angry at either of the Malfoys. If anything, I understand Draco, a bit. The sunrise seen from the roof of the tallest tower of Hogwarts reminds me of the sunrise I saw from the roof of his flat, only instead of London there’s forest as far as the eye can see. It’s beautiful.

I wish Severus was here to see it.

*

  
“I learned something from Harry today.” When I’m back home, in Reading, the first thing I do after I walk through the door is kiss Neville. The look on his face reminds me of the time when I cast _Petrificus Totalus_ on him, in our first year. He lets out a cough that sounds like a gasp, or perhaps a ‘what’.

I slide my fingers through his soft hair and pull him close to me, forehead to forehead. “Life is short. _Live_ it.”

I smile. He smiles back. His face is red and he keeps staring and holding on, as if I’ve been gone for years, and not just a couple of days.

I kiss him again. And the second time it feels just as perfect as the first.

“Best Birthday Ever,” he mutters into my shoulder in the morning.

I smile as I draw him close. It’ll only get better. He hasn’t seen the orchid we grew for him yet.

*

  
“You and him, who’d’ve thought,” I manage to smile at Hermione, as we sit by the burning fireplace in the Gryffindor common room.

“Yeah.” She gives me a shy grin. “Neville’s sort of, well, he’s doing a good job taking care of me. I’d like to learn to take care of him too.” She has this look on her face: shy and soft. Warm. It’s good; this place could use more warmth.

“What day is it?” I ask her.

“Thirtieth of July,” she smiles. “Happy un-birthday, till tomorrow at least.”

I’ve lost track of time completely. I didn’t even realise that July was almost over or even that it _was_ July. My birthday’s almost here. Severus was right. I do owe him not to stuff up my life completely; whatever’s left of it.

At midnight, I draw a birthday cake on the floor of my old dormitory. It takes a while, but after a few tries I manage to leave noticeable tracks in the dust. The cake looks more like a centipede, with twenty-five legs sticking out every which way. They’re supposed to be candles, and I blow them out. I don’t feel like twenty-five, but then, I don’t feel like eighteen either. Perhaps I don’t have an age anymore.

There are loads of things I don’t have, but I’m still Harry Potter. I’m still a wizard. I’m still in this world because I wanted to bring magic back to it. And I can’t do that by hiding here.

I should make a wish now, I reckon. What should I wish for this year?

_Severus._ I want him back.

I can’t have him. I can’t even hear his voice inside my head anymore, and that hurts. It’s like losing him all over again.

I want him. More than anything or anyone in all the world. More than everyone else in the world put together.

But he’s not _all_ I want. It’s taken me this long to remember, but it’s true. I want magic back: taught and studied and understood and passed on again. I want to see Ginny’s baby grow up. I want to apologise to Remus and Tonks for ignoring them, and just let them know how damn lucky they are to have each other. I even want to tell Malfoy that for once I understand exactly how he feels. Hermione needs looking after: she isn’t a plant, so Neville can’t be doing that good of a job taking care of her.

I’ve got a life to live. Severus said so. I made him promise once that he wouldn’t waste his life, and he kept his word. Now I have to abide by the same rules. I can’t throw away my life, even this ghost-life. I can’t back away from living, no matter how hard it can be.

That means it’s time to say goodbye to Hogwarts: all these places I remember, that kept me sane but are now driving me mad. I probably won’t be back for a while. I’ve been hiding here too long already. It’s time for Hogwarts to stop being a dream castle and turn back into a real place.

*

  
In the morning, I go back to all my usual places round Hogwarts, only this time I concentrate on seeing them as they really are, instead of how I’d like them to be. Our common room is still the same, or at least as much of it as I can see, under all that dust. The tables in the Great Hall look like four long cobweb-draped coffins, even with the fireplace burning in the corner. The sunrise shines through the remaining enchantments on the ceiling and the broken panes in the windows. The entrance is half-destroyed; the gargoyles’ wings crumbled long ago under their own weight. I move on. There’s nothing more for me here.

At the end I look back only once, as I walk to the main gates.

After all this time trying to understand, waiting and thinking and missing him, I still can’t bring myself to say goodbye. So I don’t. It’s not goodbye; it never will be.

I’m almost through the gates when I realise there’s one more place I haven’t been in all the time I’ve stayed here. The dungeons. They belonged to Severus, and even after all this time it’s still so hard to believe he’s gone. But I have to accept it or I’ll never be free, and he’d want me to be free.

I run back through the entrance, past the Great Hall, down the narrow stairway. At first I see the torches burning in the corridor, so I concentrate. The flames disappear, and now the torches themselves are covered with the dust and cobwebs of seven years, barely visible in the light coming down the stairwell. It’s gloomy below, like descending into a tomb.

No, it’s not a tomb. It’s just dark, but if I closed my eyes it’d be like going down into the dungeons for another Potions class. I know the way, all the twists and turns and stairways. I can find the classroom without even looking: seven steps down and turn, then twelve down again to the very bottom, along the corridor, past the statues and the portraits. The torches are back, and this time I let them burn. It’s better this way. It’s hard to face the dungeons with Severus gone, but I am.

I am accepting it. I just want to leave the torches burning a while longer.

I force myself to walk into the Potions classroom and it’s the same as it always was: the smells, the silence, the bottles on the shelves, all the slimy things in jars, glowing slightly in the torchlight. I don’t want to see all this disappear. I don’t want to see this room become a crypt, full of dust and broken glass. I don’t want to think of it like that, but I have to, because that’s what it is and Severus wouldn’t want me to pretend otherwise.

I gather all my courage, and focus. If I don’t face reality now, I never will.

The torches stay lit.

Brilliant, now I can’t even do this! I’m getting worse. I should get out of Hogwarts before it’s too late. I have to, or I’ll never find any peace.

The room’s still just as I remember it: the empty tables and chairs, the desk in front, the storage cabinet and a set of cauldrons. Severus’ quill and a stack of unmarked homework scrolls on the desk, his blackboard and jars. Ingredients lined up in a row. Cinnamon… No. Coffee. I think it’s coffee.

I move closer. His cloak is draped over the back of his chair: it’s the long billowing cloak that used to scare the hell out of the firsties. I touch it. It’s warm.

Enough of this! I close my eyes and focus, but everything stays the same. The cloak’s still there. I can’t help myself; I touch it again.

When I sit down, it feels a bit like he’s holding me. Like he’s still with me. I’ve told myself time and time again that I shouldn’t pretend, but it’s no use.

I rest my head in my hands. Think! It’s so quiet. But then, it always is, underground.

What’s that? I can just barely hear something. It’s almost like breathing. My eyes sting and I rub them. I’m not cold anymore. It’s warmer, but not like Hogwarts was warm. I haven’t felt like this since that last dream we had. He was with me and I was so warm I forgot all the bad things. I leaned back against his chest and he held me. I closed my eyes and everything was all right.

I want that so much. I want him.

I’m wrapped in warmth, as if the cloak’s slipped off the chair and around my shoulders. But that’s impossible. What’s happening to me? Is this what it feels like when you finally let go of someone you’ve lost?

Something touches the hair on the back of my head.

That can’t happen. None of this is real. It’s too much. I have to stop torturing myself. Focus! There are no torches. There is no warmth. I’m alone. And the only things still here are the broken jars on Severus’ shelves.

Slowly, I take my hands off my face and look. The jars still aren’t broken. I can just barely see my reflection in them. I’m in Severus’ chair. What’s that behind me? My shadow?

It moves. I don’t.

What?

Arms slide around my shoulders: warm, solid. It _can’t_ be.

_Severus?_

I’m going mad. This isn’t real. I have to turn around. But I’m too scared. If he’s here somehow and I’m not quick enough to hold onto him, I’m afraid he’ll disappear and I’ll never see him again.

His arms tighten around me and I can feel a heartbeat against my back, his mouth against the back of my head. I clutch at his hands with all my strength. If he’s an illusion, I’m not letting go of him long enough to find out.

I turn in his arms and his body is solid against mine, muscle and bone and skin. He’s warm. He’s real! All of him. The stringy strands of his hair and his beaky nose, his jaw rough with stubble, his scent. I must be dreaming!

But I’m not asleep and neither is he! I hold on and _can’t_ let go, not when he looks and feels so damn wonderful. His arms tighten around me, so close – all that time without him is gone like a bad dream and I clutch back, lost in wonder. _Severus!_

I must’ve said it aloud, ‘cause he breathes “Harry…” and I just hang onto him with all my strength. My throat’s tight and my eyes are stinging and it doesn’t get any sweeter than this.

His lips are warm – soft, gentle touches against my forehead, my mouth, my cheek… wet, how? I thought I couldn’t… But then I thought I couldn’t breathe either, and I feel the air burning my lungs when I try to speak and I choke up instead.

“I’m here,” he says before I can say anything. “It’s all right.”

I believe him, but at the same time I can’t believe our own good luck. I fumble at his shirt until my fingers glide over his chest, and I’m lost in the feel of his bare skin, smooth beneath the hair. That horrible scar’s completely gone, and I bend to rest my head against his chest, just to feel and hear the beat of his heart. My hands slide around his body, rub circles on his back; I can’t keep them still, I’m eager for more touch, more of him.

I want him so badly. He has no idea how much I want him. How I’ve missed this, all the things he brought to my life: priceless, irreplaceable. Mine. That careful, gentle precision of his every touch, the warmth of his lips, his intense gaze. Severus. I thought I’d lost him forever.

“Don’t leave. Ever.” Not again. I’m going to get him to promise it. I have to be sure. I can’t stand the thought of losing him again.

“I won’t.”

He holds me so tight and it’s hard to believe it’s _his_ arms around me, _his_ voice in my ear, but it’s Severus and he’s flesh and blood. He’s real! I hold on to him with everything I am, and at long last, everything _is_ all right.

Severus is with me.

*

  
It all comes down to a single question, one I suppose we all ask ourselves, at one time or another in our lives: ‘Why am I here?’

I still don’t know the answer, any more than I ever did. What I _do_ know is that in all of history, only wizards have ever become ghosts. Only they have the magical strength to fight their way back after death. Harry had his magic when he died, and his sheer bloodymindedness; but I only had all the stubbornness I was born with and none of the magic. I have no explanation of how I made it back to Harry. I suppose he’d say I don’t really need one: I’m here, and that’s all that matters. But part of me can’t help wondering how I managed to return to him.

First I saw muted colours, gentle pastels and greys; spinning like the world’s reflection in a falling marble, only now the marble was clear, not dark blue. It reminded me of my strange dream in the shadow of the dead Willow, or even more like waking up from that dream and returning to reality. I could feel magic pulsing all around me, reassuring as bedrock: the echoing heart of an empty castle whose dungeons, corridors, towers stretched far away from me on all sides. The colours intensified, deeper and brighter, and when I realised I was standing behind Harry I reached for him at once. He turned in my arms and looked up at me. His eyes were the same bright green I remembered from when he was alive. When I saw the look in them and the thoughts behind them, I wished I could have made it back much sooner. Then he embraced me, and I finally knew why he mentioned so often that he was warm around me. It felt incredible, like basking in the light of a sun that shone only for me.

It still feels incredible, every stroke of his hands. Frantically I unbutton his collar and start on my own. Why do we wear clothes with so many buttons?

“Off! Now!”

Apparently Harry shares my thoughts. Who am I to resist him? At long last, I don’t have only ‘till the end of this dream’ but as much time as I want, to touch him and kiss him, to have him; and clearly neither of us wants to wait forever.

Everything is a wonder: his soft, hungry mouth, the single breath we share and the slide and grip of his hands: too much and never enough and perfect. Each sensation is vital and instinctive as heartbeat, each breath is so desperately full of life.

It’s horrible how close I came to losing this: losing him. I never would have known what a joy it is to simply _touch_. It’s all so vivid, as if I’ve slept for years and have finally woken up. The colours and the light are dazzling, and each brush of his lips sets my skin ablaze.

I’ve spent so long just trying to survive that I’d forgotten, till now, how it feels to _live_.

His hot scent is such a beguiling contrast to the stale, smoky air of my old classroom. All those nights I spent alone in this very room – tidying up mangled ingredients and casting protective wards on the shelves – I never thought I’d end up back here, much less with him: once a troublesome student, but now simply _Harry_, someone I’m aching to hold.

At the moment I can’t hold him as close as I’d like, not while he’s hauling his shirt over his head without even undoing the buttons, then chucking it across the room along with his glasses. He fumbles with his belt, and staggers as he shoves down his trousers and pants _before_ toeing out of his trainers and socks. He kicks impatiently to free his feet from the pile of clothes and shoes, and sends them flying.

I can’t help but smile indulgently at his eagerness as I remove my own clothing in a manner that’s only sedate by comparison with Harry’s. It’d be easy to retreat into old habits of thought, to shy away and hide my body – my self – behind a cloak of reserve. But the need for secrets between us is long past and I refuse to mislead him, even for an instant, into thinking I don’t want him.

My smile earns me one of those brilliant grins and his hands on me, wandering, curious, quick. Gentle fingertips skim across my chest, verifying what I’ve just seen for myself for the very first time: that cursed chain of scar tissue has gone. When Harry kisses along the line of healthy skin, my throat tightens, and I bend to press a kiss in turn to the back of his bowed head. One is all I manage as he sinks to his knees. At his first, exquisite touch to my cock I shiver all over. I expected hands, but it’s his lips and nose teasing the curls at my groin; he leans closer as if drunk on scent and nearness and heat.

When nuzzling shifts to that first tender, tentative lick, I can’t help myself: my whole body curls around him like a parchment scroll, and I follow him down to the floor.

The familiar classroom flagstones prompt a flash of thought – How odd, to be doing this here of all places – but the next instant all thought is lost in the storm of sensation that is Harry: writhing, wanting, within reach, and nothing else in the world matters. I roll us until he’s spread below me, like a feast for all the senses. Warm skin taut over hard young muscle, lean lines of sinew in his thighs: he is temptation incarnate. In the flickering torchlight, his body glows like gold.

Impossible to resist.

And why would I even want to try? Harry welcomes me with open arms, with open eyes: and the mind behind those vivid eyes is wide open too. After so long, to see his thoughts again is intoxicating. Everything he might’ve said emerges in gasps threaded with kisses, but in his heavylidded eyes I see his passionate chant of _Yes! Missed you! Want you! _Or are these thoughts merely my own? They could well be; I want him just as much: his mind, his body, his closeness. His hair – as unruly as if we’d already spent a whole night together – invites a stroking hand. That reddened mouth looks as though it was made to be kissed, and feels like a revelation.

As we part with a languid slide of tongues and lips, a slight shiver races across his skin: the cool of the dungeons or the intensity of the moment?

“I see I’ll have to warm you up,” I whisper, “Properly.”

“Oh god, you…” His eyes widen. “Yes.” His grip on my arms is insistent as he pulls me down on top of him. With Harry wrapped around me – a perfect fit – I lose myself in a breathless kiss. His hands slide up and down my back, while I bury my face in his neck and breathe him in. So good. More. I want – something, anything, please! – yet I can’t free my mouth to say a word of it: I’m too intent on covering his throat with hungry, nipping kisses. So I moan incoherently instead. Shivers of pleasure escalate to rocking and rocking becomes thrusts and it’s incredible and tantalising and I need more of him.

I indulge myself: I revel in the velvety feel of the hollow of his throat. I smile at the way his stubble makes my lips tingle. As I tease his nipples with teeth and tongue, he gasps and his hands clutch my hair. Good, I’m getting to him. I take even longer to lick down the sensitive fold leading inward from his hipbone to the urgent jut of his erection.

“Ohyeah!” He sounds frantic. I smile against his skin.

“Mm. What?” Leisurely I lick away the smear of precome from the tip of his cock, and do so again and again, until his hands on my head start to shake and his breathing hastens to the urgency of his pulse. Then I have mercy at last and swallow him as deep as I can, curling my tongue around his shaft and rocking with his thrusts, feeling my heart soar at the sound of his overwhelmed cry.

His hands are persuasive, for all their shaking; they tug at my hair, pull my head up until I release him with one last, lingering lick. Panting, he pulls me to him, bumps his forehead against me. “Sev’rus,” he hisses stubbornly: a one word argument. “Needyou. Now.” He twists and arches, legs spread under my weight, until, in a single acrobatic maneuver, he bends almost double beneath me. His hand is on my cock, twisting, and he gives a full-body writhe that wrings a gasp out of me.

I can see myself in his eyes, my own wild-eyed glare, and I give a moan as deep as my need. I slip my hands behind his knees, bending them back as I rear up over him. Panting, helpless, all I can do is sob without tears – breathless _Oh! _s breaking past all reserve and control as I lean in and push. I breach him in a sudden lunge, and then sink slowly into all that tightness: the heated slide of sensation is achingly sweet. I come to rest at last, as deep in him as I can go, as close to him as I can come, and the moment is perfection, ecstasy more poignant than any pain.

I slide one shaking hand down his thigh and curl it around his hardening cock. He gasps and arches and I thrust and we’re moving as one, so hard and good and right, and all at once there’s no room for finesse or measured seduction in this tight hot need, nothing but endless, cresting waves of pleasure and Yes and Now and Harry! until he freezes and spills against my stomach. His pulsing grip on me is so tight it’s like a fist closing round my heart and it thuds like death like death like death like _rebirth_ blazing golden glory and for the first time in my life I scream aloud as I come.

When at last the world returns to me and Harry opens his eyes again, they shine so bright behind the haystack tousle of his hair. He even feels limp as a man of straw: his body – tautly arched when last I knew it – has relaxed into a soft, sweaty sprawl. His hands are still buried in my hair, unable to let go, just as I can’t let go of him. A moment ago, his every breath was a cry raw with joy; but now, as my shaking hands slide over his beloved body, his breathing sounds a little like soft chuckles, and more like satiated sighs.

He smoothes my hair softly from my eyes and slips his hands around my shoulders. A content smile curves his lips, even though he can’t be comfortable underneath me.

“Too heavy?”

“Yeah! I can see why people do this in bed.” But as I try to shift my weight off him he holds on anyway, wrapping both arms and legs tight around me. “Mmm, don’t move!”

“Brat. You’ll have a bed by tomorrow: mine.” I chuckle breathlessly, boneless and sated, resting my head on Harry’s shoulder, and revelling in the unaccustomed sensation of looking forward to tomorrow: to many tomorrows yet to come. And then I draw him into a more comfortable huddle, with his head on my chest. Stretching out the arm that’s not curled round him I just manage to grab my discarded cloak and drape it over us both, wrapping us close and warm. “That’s a promise.”

After a pause, he breathes a soft sound of surprise against my skin. “I reckon I could’ve picked any bed in Hogwarts ages ago, I just never thought a ghost would need one and I…” He groans and thumps his forehead against my chest. “I’m such an idiot.”

Instead of teasing agreement, I smile slowly: the movement brushes his ruffled hair across my lips. I reflect absently that even though my bed here is fairly narrow, it should still be wide enough to accommodate one more skinny sod, especially if his habit of clinging to me like this becomes permanent.

After a deep sigh dazed with contentment, my gaze wanders. I look up at my old classroom chair from underneath: how odd something so familiar can look from a completely unfamiliar angle. Draped over the chair’s arm is a single sock. Every other article of clothing Harry tossed so haphazardly aside disappeared, but the sock stayed: lurid red and gold, and is that a snitch knitted into the toe? I snort amusement at the sheer unlikely silliness of it, knowing that only one person would even think of wearing such things. His head moves a little on my chest, shaken by my laughter; he grins up at me, sharing my mirth.

Preposterous. Impossible. Irresistible.

And mine.

I arch an eyebrow at him. “Can I expect more of these …decorations in my bedroom as well?”

He beams up. “Count on it! So where is it, your bedroom?” He glances around as if expecting to find it in one of the jars. “Have I seen it before? I must’ve! I walked through every wall of this castle!”

It’s just through that wall in fact, but it’s more amusing to watch him guess.

“I wonder if I still can? I feel different with you around. Warmer, and harder.” He smirks and adds, “Not that way!”

At my disbelieving look, his smirk dissolves into laughter, “All right, all right, not _only_ that way! I mean, more solid. Like I forgot things over the years, and now it’s nice to be reminded that I don’t have to float all the time. Hang about,” he adds suddenly as his eyebrows draw together, “M’I haunting you or are you haunting me?”

“Does it matter?”

“Course it does! I want to know how that works.”

“Magic. Haven’t you learned anything?”

“Oh, don’t give me that!”

“Very well, then: ‘Converging planes of existence for similar apparitions result in a strengthened manifestation, which becomes real for the ghosts in question.’”

“Easy for you to say!” he grins. “Hey, is that why the ghosts in the Headless Hunt didn’t fall through their ghost horses?”

“I wouldn’t know: I only have a hopeless Gryffindor to ride.” It takes a lot of effort to deliver that line with a straight face.

It’s worth it, though, just for the stunned look he gives me. And for the laughter that follows, of course: quick and warm, from his mouth pressed against my collarbone.

“I never thought I’d say this to you of all people,” I add ruefully, “but you’re overthinking it. All this, you and I,” I stroke appreciatively down the sleek line of his back, and he wriggles that little bit closer to me, “it’s perfectly simple: it all comes down to finding a common ground.”

“Mmm.” He stretches, flashing me a leer. “Does it have to be the ground? As I was saying, the beds are softer.”

“Ah, but _are_ they still softer, or doesn’t matter matter anymore? An interesting hypothesis, Mis-ter Potter…” I declare in my driest classroom voice, before returning his leer and adding in a purr, “…we should test it at once.”

*

  
“S’never too early to start planning!” Harry declares the next morning; already he’s pacing and gesticulating with his usual eagerness in front of the burning fireplace in the Great Hall. “See, it’s only just starting. Sooner or later there’ll be students again: Ginny’s son and Hermione’s niece and everyone else we can find… bloody hell! How hard is it to Floo here at a decent hour? What time is it?”

From my vantage point by the mantel I glance at a self-spinning hourglass that’s swept a narrow slope into the layered years of dust with its daily rotation. The level of sand barely reaches the six-thirty mark.

“What? Why’re you laughing?”

“Nothing,” I reach out to stroke the stubborn strands of his fringe back from his face, and look at him with amusement. “Just trying to imagine you with common sense.”

He snorts. “Dunno why you bother; you’ve got enough of that for two. Anyway, we _will_ reopen it, together. Everyone’ll help: Remus, Tonks, Hermione, Neville. Dobby and Winky. You’ll teach.”

“_Teach?_ Have you taken leave of your senses?”

“If Binns taught, why can’t you? Potions, or Defence, or whatever you like. Hell, you can be Headmaster if you want.”

_“Headmaster?”_

“Yeah. D’you want to?”

“Don’t be absurd!” I mutter. Even though I’m most certainly capable of it, I remind myself sternly that I never for an instant wanted the arduous task of running an entire school.

“You _do!_” Harry beams. “You really do. Wicked! Why didn’t you ever tell me you wanted to be Headmaster?”

“Nonsense. I’m simply hoping for some peace and quiet. Which I know perfectly well I won’t get with you around.”

“You don’t need peace,” he grins, “That’s not what you’re here for.”

“Really? Then what am I here for?” I lead him past all the empty seats of the High Table, to my own former seat. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s simple.” He shrugs. “Ghosts don’t get peace, they get a second chance: at life. If only they’re willing to take it. Like us.”

After years of knowing him, he can still surprise me just the same. “When did you become so wise?” I murmur against the ear that’s so temptingly close.

“You’ve been rubbing off on me,” he declares happily. “Reckon it’ll happen more often, now you’re here with me. Forever.”

“‘Forever’? Hmph! You’ll tire of me in a week.”

“Oi! I was tired of you the very first time I saw you, sitting right here in this chair, not to mention all the years after that, listening to you moan and whinge…”

“Whinge? I never…”

“Don’t forget, if it wasn’t for me taking things into my own hands, I’d still be haunting your loo!” he adds with gleeful triumph.

“And if it wasn’t for you, I…” …never would have looked at him long enough to see the gift that fate had hidden right under my nose. Love: unlooked-for, most certainly undeserved, in the unlikely guise of a scruffy-headed brat. If it wasn’t for him, I would have lived – and died – alone.

“Tell me something happy!” he interrupts my reverie.

_“Happy?”_

“C’mon. One happy thought. It’s not that hard, even you can do it.”

I look at him, and I’m struck mute. When I try to think of something happy, all I can think of is _Harry. _But then, he’s always on my mind; he has been ever since he first showed up in my flat in April, or even before that.

It hits me then, the thought staggering me with its impact: _I can keep him._ He is mine, for as long as he’ll have me, or ‘forever’, as he claims. I can’t help but smile, and I don’t bother hiding it: it’s worth it to see him smiling back at me.

He reaches out, a hand tracing my cheek, his eyes alight with discovery. As he leans in it’s only natural to meet him halfway, and taste the warmth of his lips, feel him smile into the kiss, hold him close and inhale his scent and bask in all his crazy, bristling energy: more vibrant than the Floo-roused flames springing to life behind us.

If ‘forever’ means putting up with his antics and prying questions, with his grins and good mornings, with that look in his eyes and his roaming hands and his impetuous mouth, with Harry – simply Harry, with all that simple statement entails – then I will do so gladly.

After all, such is the price of magic.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Commonplace Magic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/102577) by [ac1d6urn (Acid)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Acid/pseuds/ac1d6urn), [Sinick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinick/pseuds/Sinick)




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